I'm hoping. Accustomed and yet untrusting. At times. Wind and rain. Bringing with it life. And happiness. But there is gold in the drought. And when the light hits it just right it can there be seen. Everything it seems is lighting. How to bring it? How to produce it? Wait. Smoke and mirrors and sounding brass. You know what it is but forget what it is not. A fortnight? yeah I suppose. But never a day. Not one day. Pushing on that rock. Never moving but still giving to exhaustion, which, shall be say comes easy these days. Betimes.
A Scot.
And really, really quite different.
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