Its been a dark wet winter here in Scotland, nearly as dark and threatening as the lonely moors of Mudcat. Many years ago my friend Davie Robertson, poet and philosopher, sent me the following sage advice. The inhabitants of this burgh would do well to read and understand.

Winter colour.



In efternuin the winter sky Is darkenin ower the hill, An clouds o grey afore the gale Their sleety torrents spill.
And aw along the plantin's edge The bare black brainches dreep. Ower sodden fields the glaury pools Are spreadin wide an deep.
At close o day the world aw roond Sae dreich an drab appears. At close o day nae guidin star The weary wanderer steers.
But as for me, the world I see Wi colour is ableeze, Rich rid an gold ma hert uphold, An paler pastels please.
Tae trace the gold amidst the grey, The secret I'll suin tell. The colours that enhance yer way, Ye must paint them in yersel

Davie Robertson.