By | 1 February 2015

At the edge o a time, the tide n the licht begin
tae tell thir sweir-drawn bye-the-nou thegither –
the saft saund-slaikin-straikin, the sunslant
stellin an oor in lamer, the ootrug gaan
a bittie faurder ilka turn – awthegither:

twa welcome guests wae twa awa, mindin on
tae spear at yir lasses, n syne, a when
stappies nearere the door, turnin tae sae
hoo leesom n wi maun n mair aft,
n sic n sic-like, till watcht doon the road.

Nou, I this ower-seendle times, the stanes,
weetit n luntit, warship. Thay air colour.
saphir, ruby, dymont, dymont – ye wadna
hae trouit thare wis sae mony jems I the warld,
that mony prisms on wan weel-kent strand.

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