Trappit

by James Sinclair

Da Corbie raise his heid
streetchin wings wide an hiecht
he blackit oot da sun

Grippit apo aa sides ticht,
muckle clumps o icicles fastened.
Ony minute micht be wir last,
as we wait fur da spleet an splinter
o boards an da on rush o waater,
makkin ta sook wis straicht ta da boddam,
as invisible currents push an shiv
whaariver da notion taks dem.

An as da sun maks ta finally
slip awey ower a Suderd horizon,
we still get a day back an fore
whin da lift is a clear an royal blue
as far as da sicht o da ee micht streech -
dat bricht, hit maks you glinder.
i da distance icebergs shimmer
laek da golden spires o a ceety
dir biggins close enoch ta reach in an oor or twa.
da fock weel wint an welcoming,
layin graet plates o maet apo da table
fur wis aa ta fill wir rumblin bellies.
On a day sic as dis, dir canna
be ony  idder place apo dis aert sae boannie.