i
Native loneliness -
thigh-deep in that bracken moor
under standoff skies -
the flight of a single bird, or a God -
an eagle - and me, a child.
Then, winter; the cold blizzard
catching me again, alone
on the Tor; a drift
in the midst of the white-out:
what is God meaning?
Spring at the long since crofts;
forsaken, forlorn
rainfall rivulets; my own
self hearing unexplained songs;
then, June, sheep-shearing -
the shepherd’s unforgettable
smile, his head tilted: ah weel...
- himself and the dog.
ii
Wynding down the stair,
my slippered feet on the pine
bare treads, to morning
breakfasts, where fire smoke
in the peaty-smelling room
mingles with syrup
floating the porridge;
scaling the brae at the back;
fetching birch-bundles:
it is the same lass
practising her soprano
vocals by the burn –
Lizz-y Lind-say.
It is my dad’s favourite.
I win a silver
medal for singing
this: the Lang prize, in the school;
Mr Patterson’s
nails clipping the keys
as he’s playing piano,
softly, tenderly...
iii
When I was grown up
I took my own child; the Dee
wide as her brown eyes
under the stone bridge.
She had no shoes; the pebbles
as smooth and rounded
as slippery toes.
In the cottage, gas lamp glows
and thin candles lit
the girl’s room, our room
under the same old apex.
After prayers at night,
the Skye Boat Song sung
over and over, she’d sleep
in the same high bed;
her days, not like ours;
our days not like the others’
who dwelt before us.
This is a masterpiece. Time and space captured and examined with fondness and sensitivity. A great work, Jacqui
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Evokes some old songs for me...loved it.