When to Scotland, I came to admire the very beauty of tartan against a grey Scottish sky.
Smell my dried seaweed, the water was calling. Smell my salty breath, the wind chimed in.
I wandered off to see the sheep. Blackface sang a song about obstinacy and dandelion.
Then the land ended and sky became sea.
I hid away from the sun. The leaves scraped like abrasive tongues over my skin.
In the end, everything pointed me to the water. Away, away we go.
Cold leaked through the window frame and there
not moving not turning its head not rubbing its legs
sat a fly.
I bend to examine it closely.
Its wings were a perfectly symmetrical veil.
As I took a picture, I realised that it was soon to die and felt blasphemous.