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.