The Toun Graveyaird
Behint the grid o railins, within the waas, The black yirth wi nae trees and nae gress, Wi wuiden binks whaur a fyow auld fowk Sit aa efternune without sayan a wurd. The houses ir round about and the shops ir near at haun. The bairns play in the causeys and the trains rin Alangside the gravestanes. It’s a puir bit.
Lek patches on the grey hous frunts, Clouts weet wi rain hing in the windaes. The wordin haes alreddy worn aff thae gravestanes In memorie o the deid o twa hunder year, Wha hae nae friens til forget them, the hidden deid. Bit whan the sun shines some days coman on fur June, The auld banes maun feel somethin doun there.
No a leaf nor a burd. Naethin bit stane. Yirth. Is Hell lek this? Here is pain wi nae forgettan, Row and wratchedness, penitrive, wanlos cauld. Here the deid ir no left in pais For life is aye on the go amang thae graves Lek a hure speiran fur tred under the unmovan nicht.
Whan the sheddas faa frae the cloudit lift And the factory smock comes doun as grey stour, Vyces come frae the door o the pub, And than a passan train cranks its lang echoes Lek a wild trumpat.
It’s no the Day o Jeedgement yit, ye deid without name. Bae quaet and sleep, sleep gin ye can. Mebbe Gode’s forgettan ye tae.
John Manson
From Chuckies fir the Cairn (Luath, 2009)
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