She died on Castle Hill, and Davie knew
the moment, for the mist came to her eye
as Tammie slipped away.
She walked between the shafts. The cobbled wynd
guided her home as Davie stroked her mane,
older by one grey mare.
Standing in her own stall, her breath was slow.
She heard the rustled straw and kindly words
as sad hands rubbed her down.
He left her for an hour. She had to die
alone, and he was not the kind of man
to try her dignity.
Resting upon her flank as darkness fell,
he smoked his cherry pipe against the night,
remembering a friend.
