There is
a stone step
for every day
of the year on
Whaligoe’s carved
out cliff face. Where
bare-foot fisher-lassies
skipped with creels of silver
darlings like back-turbans on
a quickstep trek to Wick Harbour
No shilly-shallying with witches thimbles
bluebells, Primula scotica while hoisting kin-men
like tattie sacks aboard the Saucy Jack to keep fisher-feet
dry. How many hours, steps from turgid-udder bladderwrack
to bathroom? How many steps to cold menu a la rice cakes, avocado
sauerkraut, Himalayan salt? How many steps to climb that mountain?
— It might as well be — How many steps down my carpeted stairs on gluteus
maximus, gluteus minimus; back up on knees? How many footsteps in a full stop?
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