I. Caithness
You are the sgian dubh in Scotland’s sock.
You are the open door on the world’s shortest street.
You are the North Sea sunrise on the morning commute.
You are golden-quilled poetry at the Caithness Music Festival.
You are the first Christmas carols sung each year in Berriedale Church.
You are a birling strip-the-willow being danced at a ceilidh in Latheron Hall.
You are the sweetest lemonade, homemade, at the top of the Whaligoe Steps.
You are the still-secret stairwell in Freswick Castle.
You are horizontal spears of rain in the Tesco car park.
You are leaves of glass cut in North Lands Creative, clinking and catching the sun.
You are the longest game of rounders ever played on the field of Lybster Primary School.
You are dark sky fish and chips lit by the soft coloured lights in the harbour gates of Wick.
You are the nighttime crunch of frosty gravel up Airport Road in winter.
You are ripped black jeans in the Merlin cinema on Saturday night.
You are red circle sunsets over Milton.
You are part of my story, too.