Drift

Drift wis oor winter’s hansel.
The grun, happit aneth, stood chisel-teuch
An its smoor pooder wis yirdet thon-hicht
Till nae fitstap wid tak ‘s the length
O barnyaird nor bothy.

Aa the beasts wis byret, thir braith
Lik haar abeen, faain lik haar-froast
On i stray heapit aroon i stalls
Far-on they layed.

Cauldrife, cranreuch, drowie chill seipin
Roon thir fat, het flunks, files sna’s fite flechs
Steert ootside thon grite barn door t lirk
In stoory drifts at the glim o e’en.

An farrer aff in drear parks an hauf-ploo’t grun,
Wi sna-cast ower trackless roddin, some wid say
We’re farrer aff noo in time than plain Scots miles.

For lookin throu i smoorin’s mirk, fit little’s seen
Is but a glent o lang-deid days, nae muckle caller
Nor the deid themsels, depairted in winter’s gab
In the grip o thir ain last gealin.

© BH, 2017

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Four poems in Scots. Following the seasons but also moving from past to present. I wanted to find a voice that could begin to echo today. I’ve never been a fan of the couthy style in Scots where we’re always hooked into yesteryear and the ways of the past.

We’re inextricably linked to that, to the land and the rustic culture. My father was fee’d at Udny. But now we have other things to build on the ruins of rural life, rubbing the rose tint off the past as we go.

This is the first in the series - Drift, Breitherin, Yokit, Throu-come.