The way the drummer girl moves her wrists
– those flashes of blue –
and the way she smiles,
thinking of something else,
remind me of you
She has a flair and a rhythm
that defies the sudden rain
but it is no big thing for her:
it is in her Scottish blood,
like a passion once felt,
never given away
She is frowning now
as she keeps the beat:
there are pictures in her head
of broken roads
and flooded houses
She hangs on the precipice
as you hang,
and I know there is a risk:
I may get trapped again
beneath those magic fingers
as the music ends
>> Written after being greeted by a pipe band in Ballater, a town recovering after being devastated by floods