Old stones, Mid-Argyll

This Christmas-tide
between sleet and surfeit
I lay my cheek against a stone’s harsh side.
This petrified mother does not speak.
Mythic sisters sit still and dumb.
Grandmothers, your bequeathing is most bleak.
Motionless maidens, to you no lovers come.

When children hunger, no table here is spread.

This ring dance yields frigid bread