Cnoc Rannoch Retreat
In the byre by the new extension,
next to cuts of fresh-faced pine,
I found a sack of peat croquettes
tight like shite from sheep in winter,
left to smoke the hearth bricks,
scent me stronger than coal.
Then a shock: two hides, intact
on rough shelving – deer and fox.
She as shapely as a hill-throne queen
without her trophy head on;
the thin diamonds of the fox’s eyes,
his soft-fold ears, his snout wanting a lick.
These Highland rooms are fucking cold,
the wind’s a tumult down the stack;
all you can do is huddle and burn
against the time your hands might have to learn
the troubled craft that steals the skin
from another animal’s back.