the news from here in 100 words

Storm. Dusk stretches and stretches here in the islands even in April. We light the fire, don't close the blinds, watch clouds steal Coll, Ardnamurchan, Rhum, Cuillins, the ocean, the thin white crescent of sand. Our horizon: tumble of blackhouse boulders – mossy raiment of greens golds rusts, hem of new nettles. Cattle come down to the lee from the uplands, black calves bounding and jostling. Skylarks fall silent, rain batters, night dissolves, dehumanises. We stop holding on, loosen boundaries to windmusic, let the dark come, allow what's real out there to merge with what's real in our heads, allow sleep.