Dwinin

Sherp, deid gless glents oot o orra grun.
Midden-weeds that heeze aginst the rubble
grow in the shape o aabody’s pain.
Here, wi broken doors that nae human haun
can open, naebody wull tak the trouble
tae walk gled-hairtit on these steens again.

The mill weemen, pit hame tae thir last domain,
saa thir wee men tak thir dry lifes tae the bars.
Syne wir bairns went gallus intae disuisst yairds
tae play forivver an bawl intae the fawin rain.
Noo the hairts that beat in wis beat black wi scaurs
and memry looks back for fit this day discards.

There’s nae mair tae ken. Nae wecht o learnin
wull stap the sairs wir lang mouterin’s made.
The weemen in the multis greet awa their tears:
auld aneth the fawin mirk and their lifetimes' yearnin
in this chaummer, thir jile an freedom, only knotless plans are laid,
then cast doon, wi the greetin, wi the stour o years.

On the gulliet edge o midnicht, the last men win hame,
happin thir sorras in thir bluiterin haik,
ower the broos of hulls and buildin-sites they wammle.
Forgettin thir saicret dule an fitivver they've became,
noo they show nae feelin nor idle claik;
intae the deep black bed o nicht they rummle.

An mornin in the brick-reid streets sterts
like a shrood or windin-sheet pull’t fest awa.
the weemen waaken and see the dawn-keek lour.
thir men sleep as deep as thir chine’t-up hairts,
even though, wakent, they spik nae wards ava.
ablow, the skimmert gless still gleams upon the grun;
The grey steen windaes glour.

© BH, 2022

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In 1989 I wrote a poem for the hi-rises in Dundee in aa thir dour desolation. It wis an exercise for a college writing course I wis deliverin and so it was in Inglis. Mair recently, myndin Dundee file workin on fit I’d written ower the years in Scots, I came up wi this as a companion piece/transliteration.

As ivver, it’s nae a direct translation. Close but suttly change't. Hopefully, in this case, mair is fun in translation than's lost.