Words From The West

The wind dominates.

My landlord is waiting for the bus, a hopeful trip to the Ferry terminal, to see if the boat is running. In the Co-op, neighbours discuss the speed of the wind. There’s a discussion about speed and directions, and what it means for the running of the boat.

The boat is the pulse of the island. Regulating its pace, its speed, its economy. It’s a constant, humbling, reminder that there are things outwith our control.

By the shore at Kildonan the wind howls, blowing salt water onto my face. The waves crash on the distant headland. It’s hard to stay out, to stay upright, but it’s hard to stay inside too.

The wind has wild dervish energy. It makes me shout, and laugh.

The wind has dominion.

Wind’s picking up again, battering rain against the cottage window.  The wildness of a storm, running through the night.  Flying through the trees, running across the sea.  Knock, knock, knock upon my window.

It sounds familiar. 

I recognise the voice.

I hear you.