‘Is chiel is tired.
There’s little watter
An the tree is broken.
It’s nae win that blaws, flistin
Intae the howes o thenicht,
Nor theday, swalt, a skyrie heidin,
Far a soul screichs oot
Till it’s smore’t wi it’s ain soon.
Ae chiel howps files anither
Pits up a ward that rain micht faa
Throu bare brainches.
It maun be poems or fushion
That fills oot our dreams,
But faa alane kens fit lifts the heart
Abeen the common, nor far lies
The quaet, glim place far-in a heart
Micht grow afore daylicht braks it?
‘Is chiel isna tired; he’s foonert.
‘Is chiel disna love ony
Though he’s burstit wi passion.
He’s dry wi the saat o years
An watter nae mair rins in him.
Fit grows in his veins
Is naither tree nor leaf.
© BH, 1995/2018
Somebody asked if onybody kent o a poem in Scots about trees. I min't on this. Weel, it's version in Inglis I wrote in 1995. So I made it Scots, an, no, nae in translation. I reimagined it. The original version fae '95 is here.
See fit ye think…
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