{ O westron wind when wilt thou blow
And the small rayne down shall rayne
O Cryst that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again }

Dawyck is as far from the sea as it is possible to be in Scotland, but the tall trees seethe in wind – a sound of high seas – and like any ship afloat suffers damage: tree stems snapping like masts, capsizing boles and branches. Lost trees.

My friend Vanja in Slovenia, a sailor, tells me there are eight main winds named there


We have only Zephyr, but it was a kind wind with no name which brought six women, reluctant poets, no navigators, my disoriented visitors, back to (h)arbour with these words:

We were lost
We lost our words
We were blown away
Our words blown away

We had no gentle strolling
We were lost
Lost on another steep hill
Lost in the flat horizon


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