caithness

by Ian Stephen

The sun is hitting out
from under the northerly

so a pale boat bobs
a tad more bright

than the white horses
on the bight

but they’re ‘white rabbits’
to my pal Saki.

Clouds close ranks
as we make the turn

to shoot
the funnel of the Strath.

The direction of sleet
is always at you.

A first line of hills
is smudged.

There’s nothing but
precipitation

then mitigation
in greys.

That Whistler should have got his arse
up this railroad.