Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

April morning, rising mist,
last fugitive snow-drifts
cooried below the dykes’ north sides,
a naked mountain
ash tree next a tumbling burn —
Ay, it’s a different season here, different world . . .

So if you don’t mind, heather of the hillside,
and it’s alright by you, small invincible bird,
I’ll lean on this here boulder
by the old drove road,
and get my eye in, lighting on this and that.

‘It’s nothing to us’ you might shrug,
— and you’d be right.