It's 1856
And Stevenson is six years old,
Absorbed in eerie Highland tales
On Christmas Eve.
Nearby, Miller in his study
Collapses on a cryptic note -
A fearful dream;
I must have walked.
Exhaustion in a book-lined room,
A loaded pistol.
Surging shadows in the firelight,
A hairy-knuckled hand.
One last walk, wave-lashed
Along the harbour wall.
Red coals erupt in rain
From the lava crust -
Adrift in primaeval mind,
But outwardly respectable,
He must have walked.
