My gaze falls on an old tumbler, a quarter full of water.
Water gone stale, ignored, its value unremarked because in Scotland, it bubbles
and tumbles, rises and roils, splashes and cascades and free falls from grey
clouds passing overhead.
Water, that refreshing resource so precious to life, longed
for by those with parched lips and dry mouths, with unwashed clothes and
unwashed hands, by those inhabiting dry and weary lands where it is craved.
Water-wealthy, our profligacy and waste mock the waterless
weary.
Next week is FiSahara. http://fisahara.es/quienes-somos/?lang=en
Mhairi is booked and jabbed and packing her bag, which she
will exchange here for her brother’s rucksack more suitable to sand and sand
and more sand. Farewelling Tallulah’s feathers and hats for a week of
aptly-named sweats, bunking in with a displaced refugee family in the western
Sahara, she hopes to raise awareness of the plight of this forgotten people.
God bless you Mhairi, and all who contributed to the
crowd-funding which has succeeded in sending her to the desert.
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