Throu-come

It’s a hairst o a kine, fan i meen’s at big
An here’s me in a sheddie o ma ain
Wi ma telescope scowthin heaven
For a sicht o God. 

                          Fit wye nae? 

I was telt Ben’ yer min’ tae science 

So I learned its trade.

For fit it wis worth, 

I pit aa at wisdom intae
Makking siller for some ither chiels, 

Leavin me nae richer an nane the wiser. 

Syne I won awa, growin auld, 

Tae furra ma ain dreel.

So I lookit up, the better tae see the stars
And track oor rowin throu black naethin.
Aifter aa, fit o substance hiv we noo
On is sookit grun, lain fauch an lately
Turned back tae bent an mosscrap?

I’m watchin yet, mebbes for a deek at God’s ee
Or mebbes tae see some shunner faa on’s fae space,
Ootby, atween Maurs and Jove.

Itherwise time wears awa an we’re aa reed shiftet,
Farrer aff still fae heaven nor earth.

An, min’, syne winter’s on’s again
An the meen’s wappin across ma gless,
Grinnin an slee, it’s oorsels that canna jalouse
Fit nor far nor foo, oorsels, paunderin awa,
Full o naethin but oor swallt conceits.

© BH, 2017

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The last in four poems in Scots - Drift, Breitherin, Yokit, Throu-come. The four seasons followed, moving from past to present. 

Here, an old astronomer looks up from his darkened croft. Considers our ways. Laments.