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.

Aye, but we’re the speugs
Rinnin for oor peedie lives,
Sma maitter for the doos
Dressed up in braided grey,
Scant carrion for the craas
An thir scaffie faces
Wi beaks for theivin.

Craas tak an doos lord it:
Craas, swart for scunner
Doos, lyart in thir crouseness,
Cockach an thrawn.

As for the rest o’s
We’re dun an oot o sicht
Flechs t skite or slap deid
Or sup on files.

Craas an doos:
Withoot the lour o the gled,
Nivver sae keen-eet
As willie-whip-the-win,
Nor blue-spur on the wing.

An we scuttle roon
Their spinnle shanks
Like coofs.

© BH 2015

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 Efter anither lang day, feeling multi-lingual and beguiled by the phonetics of ‘Kraz an Dooz’, I rustlet up these commonplace birds into metaphor. In Scots. They're like oor elders an betters, the so-called ‘great and the good’, opportunist and posturing by turns, withoot even the honesty o a predator.

No for them the squerr-go, the fell swoop. Too clean, that. An we're jist the wee broon birdies, keich at their feet, insignificant. Grist. Plain grist.

By the way, I held oot for the maist phonetic renderin. Keeps it ticht an dense.