Christine De Luca Poems

A little nap rap
When I got home one evening
to my cosy living room
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Tinkin on da haert's topography
- heichts wir climmed, jimpit aff a,
aa but miracklin wirsels,
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for Gabriel Lalonde, artist, Québec

At da stert, dey wir a makkin o wirds.
Some o da aerliest wis shurley 'haem'
an wirds for seekin hit whan lost; for
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i m Gael Turnbull, poet, 1928-2004

They shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary. Isaiah, 40 v 31

Today - so many Gaels; each from the same spring
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A mile aff we catch a glisk
o Brekken beach: webbed
atween headlands, a glansin arc
o ancient shalls
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Hit hed ta be a saint at strayed dis far nort
at cared aboot da sowls o Pictish fisherfock.
Foo da bairns a Rörick man a gawped
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A smoor o paets: a simmer foo
ta hent fae timeless broos at,
haddin der dark fire, cuppit
fair Lungawater. I da sun
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I dy harned haand du held ta da licht
een o da eggs at du wid gie her
morroless lik dee; shaa'd her
hits less dan perfect shape
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Mirknen haps a rummelled broch
on Houlland's knowe, rowes hit
in a twilt o lavendar: saft smored
as a Danish Hjøllund a year ago.
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Some museums of antiquities store row on row of
unnamed skulls. There is a day of reckoning now
a plea to repatriate lost souls, bring home bones
...