I walk down to the quayside,
past the Pure Gym fitness centre's
plate glass window.
There is a phalanx of treadmills
facing the glass,
populated by women
running nowhere,
an image of futility,
trapped like flies at a window,
determined and doomed.
The fitness centre looks out
at the huge boats
that work North Sea
between the oil fields and the fishing grounds:
The Olympic Commander,
Normand Aurora,
Skandi Caledonia,
Helliar.
On the high decks,
men in yellow oilskins
lean over the ship rail
and watch the women run.
For a moment I stand
between them, the earnest women,
the wistful men,
feeling for both but belonging with neither.
The sun is low in the sky,
and there's an Arctic bite
to the wind.
I pull up my collar,
and hurry into veins
of the granite city.