Ullswater

After work swim. Cold.

A Teams meeting this afternoon had me reaching for something to preserve my sanity and the book fell open at this poem by Sorley MacLean ...

Ebb

I am not striving with the tree that will not bend for me,
and the apples will not grow on any branch;
it is not farewell to you; you have not left me.
It is the ebb of death with no floodtide after it.

Dead stream of neap in your tortured body,
which will not flow at new moon or at full,
in which the great springtide of love will not come -
but a double subsidence to lowest ebb.