Back Fae Da Edge

by James Sinclair

Aa rodds head Nort
da laand o da skraelin
a pinnishin o frost.

An iron blue ocean, mooskit lift
an laand med oot o sharny broon an sabbit strae
drifted intae view trowe da haar.

Low haerts, neebit, sprang fae dir lang sleep.
Wir we in a dwaam or wis dis da mieds o hame,
or did da mellishon hae ee mair trick up his sleeve?

Wir we laek da phantom crew o da fleein Dutchman,
a feyness set ta drift apo da oceans o da wirld,
wi hit’s rancid currents an foul bitin winds aa wir days?

Yet da hills an high banks grew i wir ee,
an wha wis able, riggit a jib ta steer wis bye
atween Galti Stack an Ketilgill head

inta da boasie o dat muckle Ronas Hill
an in trowe da raem-calm waater o da voe.
Someen said, “ Dere’s Heylor boys, wir med hit. “

Da local men rowed aff ta wis an clamb aboard.
We hed damn all ta say an coored fae dir luiks.
Dir een said aa dat hed ta  be said. ( Da fricht, da fricht, )

fur we wir nae idder as rag bags o banes.
Wir skien sookit ticht ta wir skulls.
We most a lookit laek demented wraiths.

Da fock, dey wir kindness hitsel, comin wi
waarm blankets ta hap aboot wis, an maet.
Some o wir eans fell apo dis da sam as baess.

Stappin as muckle i dir mooths as dey could,
dan curlin up itil a baa whin da cramps grippit,
faain asound, niver ta waaken more, athin da sicht o hame