The Giant's Causeway

A giant leap for humankind,

the step of Finn McCool ’tis said,

from Scottish Isles to Antrim coast,

his cause, say how a tale is led.

But what a stride across the sea

without his dipping, salty bath;

but such a move for even me,

to scoot from top down mountain path.

A narrow way, no passing bay,

as I leaned back to not fall out,

though would, if other scooter met

save drawing swords, with sticks, a bout.

A witch’s cauldron down beneath,

Atlantic breakers, crests that drooled,

where columns rise, hexagonal,

volcano lava, basalt cooled.

The winds rush-race, through foreign place,

runs deep amongst Armada wrecks,

familiars, black caws from daws,

here’s spellbound space of muttered hex.

I shiver, shake, PD and cold,

as wonder how she’ll climb steep back,

while tourists shout above the waves

their tongues whiplashed, stack poses snapped.

Titanic stance like drying shag

while wardens warn, unstable rocks,

as I sink deeper, borrowed gloves,

and fear, steer better, hands in socks.

Despite two cut-outs, pushing arms,

me straining forward, bike race style,

we gained our height, above the rage,

with wiser wagtails, waves, a mile.

For that ascent, with bellowed shouts,

‘I’m coming through’, to Japanese,

though reaching top, found ‘listening post’,

for spies; tour headphones; advice, skis?