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.