r2vyln3rdioj14u-rld0ska where mountains meet the sea: Ràithean a’ carachadh

Ràithean a’ carachadh

Air latha ‘Solas a’ Gheamhraidh’ -
air a chumadh,
is cuirt’ am frèam fiodha aotram,
le caraid,
nochd an t-earrach.

mar:
espresso mhilis a’ leaghadh air teangaidh ghlain;
cabadaich, gun strì, ris an fhear
bu leis an gailearaidh ùr soilleir;
gluasad le saorsa àlainn air a feadh;
coimhead timcheall, gu mion,
fad deagh ghreis.

Mus deach caibideil de chlasaig Albannaich a ghlamhadh,
air waffles, le pailteas dhuilleagan Asaim,
an cafaidh car beag Frangach,
gun cus cabhaig,
is, gu h-obann, mothachadh air athair teann (theirinn)
a’ putadh notaichean co-là-breith air nighinn, shomalta,
gan diùltadh.

‘Dè an uimhir?’ dh’ iarr a deugaire fhèin, na èisteachd-san,
agus, gu dearbha, chan ann air cunntas a’ bhìdh a bha a rùn.

Is, neo ’r thaing cuairt dhan bhaile, air a deagh bheannachadh,
le blàths anmoch is smaointean measail Bharraigh,
ged a bhiodh glainne fìon, gun dùil rithe, le companach gast’
air a’ chùis fhàgail foirfe,
ach ’s e la vie.


Air deireadh,
a bha am bus,
dinnte - sgàth thramaichean,
luma-làn,
is bhrùth is phronn
is leum is chrom
e
air ais is air aghaidh
le greann

ach
shuidh an dealbh, gu snog, dìonte,
air a chumail faisg, builg-chniadaichte,
àraid.

Is leig osna an sàmhchaire
na sìneadh air a làthaireachd.

Martainn Mac an t-Saoir


Seasons: caught, bought and borrowed

The day of ‘Solas a’ Gheamhraidh’ -
printed and placed by a friend in a light-wood frame,
Spring appeared, kindly in -

sipping sweet espresso;
chatting easily with the owner
of the bright new gallery;
moving freely within;
looking around, closely,
for some time.

Afterwards, the tasteful intro to a lost Scottish classic got savoured,
on waffles and a pot of Assam leaves, in a Frenchish café,

then, an acute awareness of a stiff father (I’d say), pressing
birthday pounds on a relaxed, refusing, daughter.

‘How much?’ her teenager asked, in his hearing,
and she definitely didn’t mean the bill.

And the stroll up town was amply blessed
with late warmth and fresh Barra thoughts
and an impromptu glass of wine with a fine companion
might have spiced the cake,
ach ’s e la vie.


A delayed trammed-in bus was packed
squished and squashed,
jumped, jostled and jolted.

Though the picture sat first, protected,
held close, bubble-caressed,
special.

Sighed silence soon settled on its being there.

Martin MacIntyre

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