On the crosswind leg of my circuit
I’m skirting iliotibial discomfort,
Navigating my cranky knees
Over the shoulders of the grey-green hill.

When at thirty-five hundred feet
The flying fish rise in silence,
Wind shielded in a near gale,
Until they skein by my side.

Condensing like a myth
Born from Maol’s upland ocean,
In crisp naval monochromes,
Three dozen barnacles bank as one.

They vee downwind southerly,
Leaving me grinning like a loon.
It’s only a practice ring around,
For their pinions sing of Svalbard.

About stevedsmart

Steve Smart is an information designer, poet and artist. View all posts by stevedsmart

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