Balranald Campground–North Uist
The weather is merciless
Our tent howls and tries to take off like a chained dragon
The noise of the storm is incredible
A rock concert of sorts
Naughty by nature
Everything moves
Even the athletic swifts have no chance and sit exhausted on a fencepost
The guiding lines vibrate with tension
Or maybe they are shivering in the relentless rain?
Our name sign is tagged into a wooden pool
the place number long gone
36
Thousands of wild flowers dance in rhythm of the gusts
A seagull is blown past the tent
She barely manages to stabilise
Summer in Scotland
I wear my woolly hat
And socks mum knitted for me
As I take in deep breaths of salty air
And listen to the deafening production
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