Anyone who has spent a summer evening in the Scottish Highlands knows that the true guardians of the outdoors are not critics or the weather, but the midges. These airborne adversaries have a remarkable way of humbling even the most steadfast writer. In the spirit of catharsis (and a touch of mischief), I offer this poetic vent for everyone who has ever suffered in silence, or found themselves scratching more than writing.

Ode to the Bloody Highland Midge

Oh, you airborne vandals, you specks of despair,
You infernal marauders who nibble the air—
Spawn of the bogs and the bracken’s deep curse,
You’d turn a saint’s temper to language unversed.

Tiny tyrants, you swarm with a villainous zeal,
A cloud of damnation with needle-sharp feel.
You feast on my patience, my ankles, my nose,
You unspeakable spawn of Beelzebub’s toes.

Pint-sized tormentors, wee barbed-wire in flight,
Damp-loving demons that haunt the twilight.
If I had a spellbook, I’d curse every wing,
And send you all packing to some nettle-bound king.

Yet here I remain, bitten, defiant, and sore,
Inventing new swears I’d not utter before.
So here’s to you, midges—may you itch where you roam,
And may poets forever mock you in poem.

Thank you for reading and for sharing in my battle with these tiny tormentors.