Delicate rain, gracious as falling night;
I walk like the Fisher King, cradling
My maimed hand and crippled arm
Through these grey trailing scarves
Of winter storms. I dream
Of reaching out again to pull life in,
Of stretching above my head to greet the sun;
Of dancing again in the strong right-hand hold
And unforced grace of a Strathspey... I see
Snowdrops are coming out already.
The spring will come,
And this damned arm of mine
Will be released, and I will see the sun
And have possession of my frail limbs again.