I’m watching them. The big cumulous rising behind the Blue Ben, across the loch, wherein the tidal flow is one hell of a sassy. Must be a new moon a’coming or some other disturbance in the multi confusional vortex. It’s something, anyway, enough to strange the skies, upset the clouds and cause a load of upturned eyes in places like this one, glorious in its lack of fumes, and the noise of people, who, in my observation, would much rather not be under the control of the perceived rigidities of a worldly expectation, domination. Back to the clouds.

The cumulous were big puffs, highlifting, and like candyfloss but super white. No sunset yet to paprika their tips. Perfect virgin snow. I looked away,but for a few moments, to bring in wood, answer a call, light a candle, moments. When I looked again, there was a straggle,a shunt, I could see it, almost feel it, a slide of grey, like a teachers line through dodgy text in a presented essay. I watched the grey move, split, absorb the ice cream clouds, divide, consume.

Now, the hills are flamingo tipped, the sea-loch pinking, the sky above already bored with the artist. It will darken soon.

Obviously, things change. Sometimes too quick.