This morning as I was finishing my laps at the pool, I thought I heard the distinctive sound of a bagpipe playing in the near distance. It continued as I left the water, a plaintive drone in the morning mist. A light rain had started to fall. Strangely, no-one but me seemed to be aware of the piper, so I thought, for a brief moment, that I was finally taking leave of my senses. It is never too late, even at 61, to do so.

But on the walking to the car, there was he, a lone man with his trusty bagpipe, in yon shady glen. I mean, in Wilson Park. He was in his own world, amidst the play of rivulets and water falls (surely, bonny banks -ed.) with a melody so sweet and so sad, that it changed my mood. It is certainly worthy of a poem, though by someone more able at that craft than me.

Last might I was driving to choir when an inky blackness suddenly loomed above and the heavens opened. Thinking we might be about to get a massive hail storm, I diverted into Springwood Station carpark. I think that this photo says is all. It really was a-coming down.