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[violettesiren]

for John Burnside

You’d know her house by the drawn blinds -  by the cormorants pitched on the boundary wall,  the black crosses of their wings hung out to dry.  You’d tell it by the quicken and the pine that hid it  from the sea and from the brief light of the sun, and by Aonghas the collie, lying at the door where he died: a rack of bones like a sprung trap. 

A fork of barnacle geese came over, with that slow  squeak of rusty saws. The bitter sea’s complaining pull  and roll; a whicker of pigeons, lifting in the wood.

She’d had four sons, I knew that well enough,  and each one wrong. All born blind, they say,  slack-jawed and simple, web-footed,  rickety as sticks. Beautiful faces, I’m told,  though blank as air. 

Someone saw them once, outside, hirpling  down to the shore, chittering like rats,  and said they were fine swimmers,  but I would have guessed at that.

Her husband left her: said they couldn’t be his, they were more  fish than human,  said they were beglamoured, and searched their skin for the showing marks.

For years she tended each difficult flame:  their tight, flickering bodies.  Each night she closed  the scales of their eyes to smoor the fire.

Until he came again,  that last time,  thick with drink, saying  he’d had enough of this, all this witchery,  and made them stand  in a row by their beds,  twitching. Their hands  flapped; herring-eyes  rolled in their heads.  He went along the line  relaxing them  one after another  with a small knife.

It’s said she goes out every night to lay  blankets on the graves to keep them warm.  It would put the heart across you, all that grief.

There was an otter worrying in the leaves, a heron  loping slow over the water when I came  at scraich of day, back to her door.

She’d hung four stones in a necklace, wore  four rings on the hand that led me past the room  with four small candles burning  which she called ‘the room of rain’.  Milky smoke poured up from the grate  like a waterfall in reverse  and she said my name  and it was the only thing and the last thing that she said.

She gave me a skylark’s egg in a bed of frost;  gave me twists of my four sons’ hair; gave me  her husband’s head in a wooden box. Then she gave me the sealskin, and I put it on.

At Roane Head by Robin Robertson

[theteaisaddictive]

in light of the idiots who think that people writing in scots are idiots who can’t spell

‘[...] what a shame it was that folk should be shamed nowadays to speak Scotch - or they called it Scots if they did, the split-tongued sourocks! Every damned little narrow-dowped rat that you met put on the English if he thought he’d impress you - as though Scotch wasn’t good enough now, it had words in it that the thin bit scraichs of the English could never come at. And Rob said You can tell me, man, what’s the English for sotter, or greip, or smore, or pleiter, gloaming or glunching or well-kenspeckled? And if you said gloaming was sunset you’d fair be a liar; and you’re hardly that, Mr Gordon.

Lewis Grassic Gibbon, Sunset Song (Edinburgh: Polygon, 2006), pp. 148-9.

[othernotebooksareavailable]

There was an otter worrying in the leaves, a heron loping slow over the water when I came at scraich of day, back to her door.

She’d hung four stones in a necklace, wore four rings on the hand that led me past the room with four small candles burning which she called ‘the room of rain’. Milky smoke poured up from the grate like a waterfall in reverse and she said my name, and it was the only thing and the last thing that she said

- from ‘At Roane Head’ by Robin Robertson