Snug, I lie in night listening to the shipping 

forecast bolting the doors of fortress Britain.

South Utsire rising to Gale Force nightmare,

nightwear, sleigh wear, blizzard over Finisterre.

Rockall me off to sleep deep low Hebrides.

Sleet and snow, nowhere to go except slide 

down the voice of the night announcer

and castaway the ropes of wakefulness

 

one by one so that, by his words my bed floats

in the hiss and boom of a terrible sea

where refugees hang on for morning, 

over a cascading fall to their peril,

praying for light and gulls flying over

Malin in a welcome racket of white