The Road to North Uist

 We wake to the sound of it chucking it down

And reckon we’re in for a soaking 

We start in Scotch mist, but here’s the twist

It soon clears with the headwind that’s stoking.

The countryside’s bleak but the route has a tweak

To Nowhere-Special-on-Sea

The tarmac snakes past peat-bog lakes

With curlews calling to me.

An islander’s life is hard labour and strife

How do they get by on their doings? 

The houses they scatter as if it don’t matter

And the landscape is littered with ruins.

Benbecula’s terrain is more of the same

And I start to hanker for change

Then lapwings courting or simply cavorting 

And Grimsay is soon within range.

Causeway upon causeway, too many to say

North Uist arrives in two ticks

White sand that gleams, blue lagoons in  between

Then RSPB and our digs.

Harris