Shiubhail mi a-raoir as mo chadal
eadar Rubha Taigh Phàil is a’ Charadh
is shaothraich mi an t-slighe mhara
air ais mu ghob an Rubha Chaoil,
a’ ruith ro ghaoth is sruth carach,
le dìosgail air acfhainn,
dà cheann anns an t-seòl;
ràmh ri taobh an fhasgaidh
a’ fannadh a-steach gu caladh
air a’ Phort Mhòr …
Is choisich mi an t-suan-shlighe eadar
a’ Ghamhnach is Creag a’ Bhainne;
lean blas an fhìr-uisg air mo theanga
san dìreadh chas bho bhun an uillte;
tarsainn air làrach nam muilnean,
air athadach nan taighean –
Tobhta Chaluim Fìdhleir ’s Tobhta a’ Bhàird
an tasgaidh Cnoc a’ Charmaig –
seachad air athadach nan leasan,
air Iodhlainn Chruinn na h-Athadh,
suas gu ruige an t-òs.
’S a-mach air uachdair Loch Mharcoil,
am fasgadh Cnoc a’ Chàrnan ’s a’ Chnuic Mhòir,
a’ chuimhne le ceum-neog a’ sgaoileadh
a h-àl de chearcaill fhabhdach,
a’ turracail seòlaid na h-eala ’s na faoileig
’s a’ togail saoghal na crannlach
is gobha-dubh an uisge mu bhòrd … |
Last night I made the journey in my sleep
between Paul’s House Point and the Weir,
and I worked the sea-passage
back around the tip of the Narrow Point,
running before a veering wind and current,
with creaking of rigging,
the sail two points shortened;
a supporting oar to leeward
inching in to land
in the Broad Haven.
And I walked the sleep-road between
the Milch-Cow and the Milking Rock;
the taste of the fresh water stayed on my tongue
on the steep climb from the outlet of the stream;
over the ruins of the mills
and the remains of the houses –
Calum the Fiddler’s site and the Bard’s
in Carmaig Hill’s safekeeping –
past the ruins of the gardens
and the Circular Cornyard of the Kiln,
up to the stream’s outlet.
And out on the surface of Marcol Loch,
sheltered between the Hill of the Cairn and the High Hill,
memory like a skimming-stone spreading
its brood of random waves,
rocking the waterway of the swan and the seagull,
and making contact with the world of the teal
and of the water ousel along its shores. |
