Scunnered frae Skara Brae
by Finola Scott
Ower excited, he waaks at crack o dawn,
grabs farls fresh frae the fire, an awa til moon-rise.
His beardie rasps my cheek and he’s oot-loupin.
No a glance back, no a thocht o me.
The bairns? Thay're foo o the stanes as weel.
Huv ye heard the like? Heavin bloody great rocks.
Fir whit? A new hoose? Naw. He’ll haul them
tae the Siller Loch tae staun in a bloody circle.
Ye’d think the sun rises an sets oan them.
He says he’s bin chosen, it’s an honour.
Says Ah've no tae girn but be prood. Some chance.
But mibbe, he’ll bring back anither necklace.
Ah mind whan he draped yin roon ma neck, aw gleamin.
Ah sweer the nicht wis caught up in the chuckies,
dark as his een.
Och him an his stanes.