The Sea Coal
fir Jock an Eck
Oors up ti ma waist in watter,
cauld creeshy watter
the colour o deid faces;
an thae ileskins,
nivir did keep oot the arthritis.
Ye made a shuvel oot
o a wuiden pole an steel frame,
pittin wire nettin owre the frame.
Whiles ye caaed yer pan in
shuvelin the coal up;
whiles the sea shuveled it up fir ye.
A still mynd the maumy dirl
o the coal washin agin the wires.
Aabody had their ain patch.
A merked oot mine wi twa lines,
lik reid injun waurpent on the beach's brou.
Naebody touched yer patch;
fowk had weys o warkin then.
Ma guid faither had a horse an cairt.
Ye'd ti wauch yer horse didnae stummle
owre the boulders an coal coom.
Wance a horse got caught
in the slurry pond aside the bing;
A mynd it pauchlin in thon bleck quicksaun,
wi the ropes stickin oot lik birstin veins,
an its nostrils snortin curls o stoor.
Aye, the coal's aa awa nou,
bit mynd ye, sae are the pits.
Some nichts, when the haar's up,
there's a taiste ti the air,
o sauty derkness.
Thon wis the sea coal.
fir Jock an Eck
Oors up ti ma waist in watter,
cauld creeshy watter
the colour o deid faces;
an thae ileskins,
nivir did keep oot the arthritis.
Ye made a shuvel oot
o a wuiden pole an steel frame,
pittin wire nettin owre the frame.
Whiles ye caaed yer pan in
shuvelin the coal up;
whiles the sea shuveled it up fir ye.
A still mynd the maumy dirl
o the coal washin agin the wires.
Aabody had their ain patch.
A merked oot mine wi twa lines,
lik reid injun waurpent on the beach's brou.
Naebody touched yer patch;
fowk had weys o warkin then.
Ma guid faither had a horse an cairt.
Ye'd ti wauch yer horse didnae stummle
owre the boulders an coal coom.
Wance a horse got caught
in the slurry pond aside the bing;
A mynd it pauchlin in thon bleck quicksaun,
wi the ropes stickin oot lik birstin veins,
an its nostrils snortin curls o stoor.
Aye, the coal's aa awa nou,
bit mynd ye, sae are the pits.
Some nichts, when the haar's up,
there's a taiste ti the air,
o sauty derkness.
Thon wis the sea coal.
Imagick
Water is a wet flame...
plants are dead stones...
every line is the axis of a world...
Novalis
Wha kens the quine whase flauchts are sae streamoury
i lamar that a sun-broch skimmers
abune her emerant een? Whase lie-by
is she, this guess o saunt an limmer?
Mulk an hinny-draps fae Friesian simmers
Spreckle her pairtit lips; halie berry-wine
purples her maumie breists - wha kens this quine?
Wha kens the loon whase sangs are sae dern i
thir lytach that anly a staunin-stane
dirls ti thir lilt? Whase luve roused his hert ti
cant, this laddie wi the thrabbin sairpent-bane?
Man-broued abune an ablow, whaur the lane
o veesion spinners; incaaed bi the rune
o seeven happit een - wha kens this loon?
Wha kens the spring-heid whase oot-poorins are
sae auncient that anly the leirichie-
larachies o haets let dab its ruits? Whase car
an richt are eikit bi kythin’s saicret ties?
Akhenaton kent its greeshoch, an whan fie,
sae did Christ; the Pechtish Magi’s mither-leid
wis borne fae this -wha kens this spring-heid?
Water is a wet flame...
plants are dead stones...
every line is the axis of a world...
Novalis
Wha kens the quine whase flauchts are sae streamoury
i lamar that a sun-broch skimmers
abune her emerant een? Whase lie-by
is she, this guess o saunt an limmer?
Mulk an hinny-draps fae Friesian simmers
Spreckle her pairtit lips; halie berry-wine
purples her maumie breists - wha kens this quine?
Wha kens the loon whase sangs are sae dern i
thir lytach that anly a staunin-stane
dirls ti thir lilt? Whase luve roused his hert ti
cant, this laddie wi the thrabbin sairpent-bane?
Man-broued abune an ablow, whaur the lane
o veesion spinners; incaaed bi the rune
o seeven happit een - wha kens this loon?
Wha kens the spring-heid whase oot-poorins are
sae auncient that anly the leirichie-
larachies o haets let dab its ruits? Whase car
an richt are eikit bi kythin’s saicret ties?
Akhenaton kent its greeshoch, an whan fie,
sae did Christ; the Pechtish Magi’s mither-leid
wis borne fae this -wha kens this spring-heid?
Ti a Bairn Killt bi a Car
I’m no yer faither, son. I’ve nae bluid-richt
ti greet ma guts reid-raw. I didnae see
yer face the day ye got thon pet fir free,
the ane ye saved whan weird spat oot yer licht.
I’m no yer faither, son. The enles sicht
o bairnheid bleedin dry is spared fae me.
I’ve no ti fauld yer jammies up an dree
the daw, or stare awa the oors o nicht.
I’m no yer faither, son. I dae hae fowk
jink me i the toun, or fin the heidlines
o yer daith roun chips or makin syvers chock.
I’m juist a makar, son, wha kens nae quine’s
ti feel yer kiss, nae bairn’s ti caa ye Paw:
yet leeve ye wull whane’er ma horn I blaw.
