Past stone circles on meandering
northern bends, upon the wet
lash of Sutherland a magician stands.
I could swear I climbed up
there and put my palm to his boot.
It only became apparent one day, years later,
sunlight on the backs of stags by the railway line,
chimneys sighing over quiet morning glen,
that it was not possible, his foot’s about seventy feet up.
As clouds parted the single-track road rolled out in front of us.