Sgitheach

by Iain MacRàth

Sean bhoireannach na crùb-suidhe
’gabhail fasgadh ann an sgàil an sgithich,
molag na bois ’s i ’faireachdainn a maothachd.
A’ chraobh ri a cùlaibh a’ dìosgail ’s ag osnadh,
gach alt air at, gaoth-lùibt’,
snaidhmt’.
 
Tha a cuimhne a’ fleòdradh san fhathaman:                
Tha do ghruaidh cho ùr ri blàth na craoibhe;
dìreachd do chumadh rèidh mar uinnseann;                
geurad d’ eanchainn mar bhior an sgitheig;
do làmh cho mìn ri molag ùr-nighte.
 
Thàinig ràithean.  Dh’ fhalbh iad.
Liath a’ chòinneach
air colann na beinge.
 
Mu dheireadh, thàinig duine,                 
’gluasad gu slaodach suas an staran.
Sheas e greis, aire air a’ chraoibh.
Rinn e suidhe,
a’ leigeil le cheann ìsleachadh.
Dh’ fhuirich e greis eile 
mus do chrùb e sìos le beagan 
spàirn, a’ faireachdainn
eadar corrag, ordag, bois 
gus an robh e cinnteach.
 
Le chùl ris an sgitheach
lean a shùil cumadh an uinnsinn.
A’ sìneadh làmh gu mall os cionn a chinn,        
dh’ fhairich e thairis fad na gèige,
na sgitheagan a’ toirt air fuil ruith
sìos bàin a ghàirdein 
mar fhèithean fhèin nan sruth
a-muigh bho chraicinn.

Caochladh cha do nochd dha ghnùis.
Fhuair e lorg air a’ bhlàth
is thug e dha aodann e, 
Sgitheag air sgitheig a’ sgrìobadh a lethcheann
mus do ghabh e anail.
Bhlais e bileag eadar a bhilean,
a’ faireachdainn na làmh eile 
faothachadh ann am maothachd na molaig.

Hawthorn 

The old woman, stoop-seated,
shelters in the shade of the hawthorn,                    
feeling in her palm the smoothness of a small stone.        
The tree behind her creaks and sighs,
wind-bent, swollen-jointed,
twisted.
 
Her memory sways with the breeze.                    
Your cheek is fresh as the haw’s blossom;
you are straight, slender as the ash;
your mind is sharp as a hawthorn barb;
your hand smooth as a rain-polished pebble.
 
Seasons arrived, faded.
Mosses greyed on the body 
of the bench.
 
Now a man moves slowly up the path
and stands awhile, regarding the tree.
He sits, allowing gravity 
to lower his head.
Thus he remains until with effort 
he bends, feels 
between finger, thumb, palm til he is sure.

His back to the hawthorn, 
his eye follows the shape of the ash trunk. 
He reaches his hand slowly above his head,
searching, feeling his way along the branch 
until barbs cause the blood to run 
down the paleness of his arm as though
his veins streamed outside his skin. 

His expression does not alter.
He finds the blossom
and brings it to his face.  
Barb after barb tears at his cheek
before he takes breath.
He tastes a petal between his lips,
feeling in his other hand 
the smoothness of the pebble.