as weird as a magic wand
as upending as a gust from Waverley steps
it comes on a night you could forget
as soon as December dangles its tinsel charms
from a synthetic tree
this witching wind can clear
mud from festered minds, blustering up
through steep Edinburgh wynds
like a mini-mistral, a reminder
that we are tides
we are storms
we are whirlpools of wonder
we are fine to wear our wuthering hearts
on our weather-beaten sleeves