The Swallows Are Gone

The swallows are gone.

Because of their going

Air has changed 

And become empty.

Stillness under the sky

Grows in the evening

Like puzzled silence 

Above the late fields.

Watter Inside

The watter inside
Ilka drap in its wee skin,
A hunner thoosand or mair;
Cells that mak oor bleed
An ivry single bit o’s
Full o watter fae years
Langer deid than maybe;
Jist the mindin we cairry wi us.

Huntin Time

Fan paddock an taid canna loup

For fear o thunnerin clatter
Fan pairtrick and pheasie hae mair t dread
Than August guns and cateran dugs.

Plane of Memory

Behind the door,
In the cupboard where the tools are kept
With the nails and screws,
The secrets of the past remember themselves
In the harsh electric light.

In a distracted moment
Searching for a fixing
Some random string, a brush,
I smelt my father.

Craas an Doos

Licht-steppin, the craas,
Hoik an yark thir noddin heids;
Coorse black birds
Faas dour bead-eent keek
Trauchles the girse for spiles.

Hinner en o the park
A wheen o speugs scatter
For fear o girslt nebs
Scartin their steekit dokes.

The grey doos showd an strut,
Full o themsels, lik preenin sodjers.
As mony colours shine like medals
On thir swaggerin breests,
An still they rise, steerin at the first
Sign o gaitherin storm.