The Smuir'd

  Dedicate tae the saumon o wit an wir Pecht kin, the niver kilt nor ett the saumon while cannin

The Pechts aye luit the saumon soum
its vaige hail fae redd an back,
tae freely gang till hinmaist spaun,
its naitral en - an that the tak

A’m waukrif i the howe o nicht
an hou A’m staunin i this dirk
ootby the hoose amang the toun
afore this gowstie stane-dumb mirk
The feck o fowk haes slip’t tae Nod,
i lairs, tween sheets, lik smuir’d lowes lirks
While in thon unkent warld thai bide,
A’m lattin aa this o’t wirk

This nicht is that lik sum graffyaird,
the muin that haunts it lik a wraith,
A think on thaim i this toun’s lairs,
the monie lyin i the claith,
that sleeps wi us but i that nicht
whase mirky muild thai lig anaith,
an wunner hou thae smuir’d lowes rests:
is slockit or sumgait haes braith


A leuk ayont this warld an muin,
aboot the enless nicht o Space,
an wunner on the stellate lift,
the monie warlds can scantlins trace;
thare’s monie mae nae bodie’s seen
an nane haes wan tae fae wir place
ablo yird’s lifelie sheets o air,
aa held i graivity’s embrace

We bide upon the yird i bouks, 
aa hapt i sev’ral sheets o skin, 
wi wits for moyen sinnrie weys 
an harns for maucht this warld tae fin, 
but yont the stent o whit thai can 
thare’s muckle mair thai canna win, 
a warld no fan that’s lik tae us
a mirky nicht for bein blin


We’ve got wirsels ‘far i the beuk’ 
an lang atween its sheets can sicht, 
but ither sheets is missin yet 
for hou we uise – or no – wir micht
We’r that in hauns wi the warld’s wark, 
wir harns an wits we seendil hichts, 
thair pours wad forder lichten smuirs 
an gits insteid anither nicht

This mynds me o the saumon cruives 
keps saumon on thair wey tae spaun, 
that maks thaim nicht-boun wi tar’d sheets, 
the tap o thair gret vaige thrawn,
for fisher fowk tae tak an sell 
tae thaim that eats thair flesh an raun, 
tae Pechts wad be lik killin saunts 
tae sell tae thaim wad eat thair braun


A’m tae ma bed an sum time sleep 
till cum the morn awauk again 
A’ll rise wi aa thaim sleepin nou 
an lea the deid tae lig thair lane 
Aince mair ma wits an harns will be 
taen up wi this bouk’s life mundane, 
that thrang wi aa the day’s adaes 
that little o thir thochts remains

Hamish Scott