light dusting of snow: icing sugar on the road busy birds at the feeder grey clouds pass over the hill from the south west, from Cornwall where my dear friend is they found Cornish tin at Skara Brae, so in antiquity all the watery miles were crossed I sit still, limbs ache, in my barque, storm- tossed, I try to regulate my days with all my tasks: a big ask but nothing can beat being here: my small place the carpet at my feet all my stowed gearnext poem