CÀISG

Posted by in Poems on Aug 11, 2013

Dè tha siud a’ carachadh anns an achadh a-bhos?

An e luideag dhubh a th’ann? Ars an t-seabhag.

 

‘S e mo sgiath a th’ann, ars an fheannag:

tha i a’ crathadh, tha i a’ crathadh.

 

Carson nach eil thu ag itealaich, ars an t-seabhag:

Is do chorragan dubha nan sìneadh air a’ ghaoith?

 

“S ann reamhar a tha mo bhrù a-nis

oir tha na daoine air a bhidh sabaid,

ars an fheannag: is bidh mo theaghlach ag ithe

ged a thig geamhradh cruaidh.

 

Ach bidh mi samhach anns a’ghaoith, ars an t-seabhag,

Is bidh me a’ sealltain nas fhaide.

Tha sruth na beatha a’ ruith gan ionnsaigh,

Is bidh an t-acras ort me dheireadh.

 

 

 

 

 

EASTER

 

What is that below in the field, said the hawk:

a black rag moving?

 

My wing, said the hoodie, a flapping, a flapping.

 

Why are you not in the air, said the hawk,

and your black fingers spread on the wind?

 

said the hoodie. My belly is too fat for flying,

for men have been fighting,

and there is food enough for my family,

though the winter is coming on.

 

But I am motionless on the wind, said the hawk,

and I see further. A stream of life

flows towards them,

and you will be hungry at the last.