The Loch

Across the waters which are black,
Where shadows of the clouds lie thick,
A crofter's cottage white and red,
Lies in a hard-held bank of trees.
The tourist boats move forth and back,
The rain makes every surface slick,
And the wind blows at every head,
Their hats are clutched like autumn leaves
And yet a yard away the sky
Is brightening to a burning blue,
And the few clouds above are high,
White tufts of angel hair as true,
As any painting is to life,
As any poem is to you.