So the foxred cones on the firs
     separated from us
by a dry-stone wall which
edges our view over the dropping valley

are passed on: it's a terrain
roughened by squalls but
trenchant and far away from you.
Night here is utterly private.
Cutting my finger on a stone
is how I suffer. The cones
are passed on, though change
is their condition, though
consumed, they are forgotten.

The wireless
weeps drifting for a station,
babbling and whining the world's spaces.
...