Passing in Caithness


Passing the


domes of

burial cairns

five thousand

years old, but


seconds ago

the abstractly

situated sine

waves of

water, the

acres and acres

that simply


– a ruddy

tinted green –

to a horizon

with the revolving

propellers of

wind farms

pointing to

a possible

alt future



to offend

the jaundiced

piggy eye

of the latest


to whom all

lands, even

this independent

minded locale

are supposedly

meant to

pledge allegiance.

As you

decelerate to

let another

driver pass by

raising your

hand in greeting

I notice

a cow

on the edge

of the sky

chewing over

the thingness

of things.

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