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You dress yourself up

in your very best, then

let your chiselled features

knock me out.

Why do this to me

on my final day?

Every bend in the road is

a gentle inquiry of my thigh; I’ll be

in the ditch if you offer another hill,

that deep rolling over westwards,

softening to its soft powdery browns,

lightening to a gouache of greys.

The wind has dropped. Tonight,

every lake is stencilled,

every inlet inlaid. Wormadale

is glorious; Whiteness, Binnaness,

Kalliness, every one a point of land so near,

bidding me come, step across.

No, I will not disturb a thing.

If I as much as breathe

it will all shatter.

Waas to Watsness is