Cruinin awa like Tam Elyot

Let’s awa then, the baith o’s,
fan the forenicht streetches ablow the sky
like some body davert on a buird;
aye, let’s awa, doon ae hauf-teem wynd or tither
intae chatterin howffs
for a puckly fliskin meenits in fly-bi-nicht lodgins,
or spit an sawdist taverns wi spoot-shell fleers:
dim vennels at wynd roon like dauntin backchat,
slee an ettlin
tae lead ye on tae an owerwhalmin question.

Och, dinna ask ‘Fit wad that be?’ aye,
jist cairry on the wye yer gaun an cry in by.

In thir chaumers weemin claik an tell’s
o picters fae the Book o Kells.

The yalla smore at slips on ower the cassies,
the yalla rick at dichts its gab on windae-gless,
slaik’t its tongue intae the verra neuks o gloamin,
hinnert in the stanks that dreep doon cundies,
let faa aa ower its back the smits fae sootit lums,
skitet past the sitooterie, made a suddent lowp
an seein it wis a saft nicht in October,
furlt aince aboot the hoose, and fell asleep.

© BH, 2025

---

I originally posted this on World Poetry Day 2025. I mean, how could I resist a transliteration of Tommy Stearns? Only the first 22 lines, but there you are.

He renders well in Scots, I think… Perhaps’ I’ll do more.