some scoundrels came along my coast like those
some six thousand years before who’d come,
so in I blew my Atlantic haze and mist
in hopes that this, my wind, would freeze
their arms and legs; and with my salty sleet,
I spit. My Lord, how they run and run on
a ditch they made in the arms of a ridge that
overlooked my ancient surges. Strong Skara Brae,
her name as old as bagpipes, born to hold
the little men and women in their huts, like
the scoundrels tucked away to whine and thaw
till once again they run along my raging sea.
