Foudland

I wear awa ower heather stiles.
It's a track wi nae renegin'.
The tractor roads I'd aince tae tread
Are ahin my present leggin'.

But still there's wires and rotten posts,
The marks o' man's construction.
Even here up high on Foudland's slopes
The air smells o' restriction.

Threedin' on abeen the parks,
I pick my steps wi measure
Through mounds o' slate files quarried here,
By pits noo boss o' treasure.

It's keen, the air amang the blast
An' hail o' Januar weather.
Ye feel nae man could haud yer thochts
But you could slip the tether.

There's win', the grey-like bowl o' sky,
The clouds that hunker lower.
The hills ben' doon tae thole the sleet,
The caul' front hurries ower.

But I'll nae name these roonded taps
As ithers did afore me.
There's newer names noo spoken o'
Syne the seas o' Buchan bore me.

Aince sun, moon and stars could rise
An' daur the birds tae soar.
Noo black planes thunder in oor hearts
An' ploo the heavens ower.

It sows the seeds o fear in us
That walk the modren track
Tae ken that there's nae havens left
Nae place tae turn yer back.

We canna hide, we canna rest,
There is nae place o' peace.
The hillsides far oor faithers bade
Nae mair provide release.

© BH 1981

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Rabbie Burns. Pit's ye in min' o yer reets. Here's a puckle o my ain, weaved inta a thocht near twenty-five year aul. Some o ye micht ken Foudland far aince they quarriet slate till the boddam went oot o the mairket. Min't me o a lot syne. Commerce, deein weel, an the comin o the ile. Still the hills thole 'at an a lot mair. It's nae Burns Countra, though.