Poetic justice

Published on 31/07/2012 00:00

Having just returned from a wild camping trip in the Trossachs my skin is covered in welts from midge bites.

No breeze and the threat of rain had encouraged the midges to attack mercilessly. So on my return to my tent I composed this poem.

To a Midge

Midge, you are no tim’rous 
 beastie.

Die, die, die, die, die, die, die,
 die, die you little fly.

I am sure that you will agree that my poem owes less to Robert Burns and more to William McGonagall.

Neil Sinclair

Clarence Street

Edinburgh