Da Shaetlan Wye
A’m niver lost me sense o Nort.
N by NE,
whaar I wance stood a’da lichthoose dat would beam
hame i’da winter,
whaar
idder fokk ir tint demsels i’da Roost,
me beacon o licht i’da gale
whaan
da auld foghorn didn’a waarn.
Twenty year on,
A’m still learnin da name o geos,
sea caves an taings,
da taste o’da hedder berries i’da
simmer fae each
grid, fae each square,
whaar
dratsis drink fae filskit burns –
da meanin o’da blue fae da paets,
me hert rooted i’da hedder,
cartographic aroond
da skerries, holms an isles, as
da sun wakes fae each
dimriv.
Translated:
I never lost my sense of north.
N by NE,
where I once stood at
the lighthouse that would beam home deep in winter,
where others vanished i’da Roost,
this tidal jinx oceanic,
my beacon of light in the gale when
old foghorn remained silent.
Twenty years on,
and still learning name of each beach carved inside rock,
sea caves and fashioned tongues of land,
taste of crowberries in summer from
every grid,
in every square, where
otters drink from feisty streams –
meaning of deep blue in the peat,
my heart rooted deep in heather,
cartographic around skerries, holms and islands,
as the sun awakes from each dawn.
© Nat Hall 2021