GLASADH / A HUNDRED DAYS OF SOLITUDE IN THE HIGHLANDS

Gàrradh nan Dreallag thall ud

An Caol Loch Aillse sa bhrìosan fhann,

Seall, ri briseadh an là

A’ chiad char Fèill Bealltainn

Agus na dreallagan gun ghluasad

Gun char luath no moch no mall,

Gun luasgadh a-null ‘s a-nall

Suas sìos sìobaileag seòbaileag ann

Ach an glasadh air feadh na cruinne,

Seadh, air feadh an t-saoghail-shuain

Agus an saoghal gu lèir fo ghlais

Agus gun de dh’fhuaim ri faireachdainn

Ach a’ ghàir a thogas a’ chlann

Ri ruith ri fealla-dhà

Air ais is air adhart is air ais

An ceann, och, beagan mhìosan.

In the playground over there in Kyle of Lochalsh in the slightlight breeze the first twist-thing on Mayday holyday, the swings aren’t moving fast or slow early or late, not swinging back and forth up and down and up and down at all with lockdown in place all around the globe and there’s not a sound to be feelheard but the children laughing and shouting running having fun back and forth in, och, a few months’ time.

Chì mi bhon bhearradh

Làn de chlach-aoil sa Bhealltainn

Boraraig is gun càil ann ach na tobhtaichean

Is feannagan dubha san taobh thall

Bhuam agus Heasta fo sgàil

Agus an là geal ga nochdadh

Agus na sgòthan ‘s an ceò

‘S iad a’ glanadh air falbh

‘S gun lorg air duine beò

‘S mi nam sheasamh ‘s a’ sealltainn

Ris an dà bhaile bàn

Eadar fuadach is glasadh an t-sluaigh.

I see from the sharp ridge tidefull of limestone in May Boreraig and not a lifestrengthdesirething there but the thwartwallruins and black hoodie-crowlazy-beds on the far side over there and Heast in ghostshade and the brightwhite day having nakedappeared and the clouds and mist pureclearing away and not a shaftstalktrace of a living manperson as I stand there showlooking at the two whitewaste clanfarmhomevillages eitherbothbetween greygreen lockdown and clearances.

Seadh, seadh,

Nach e sin an dà là dhut a-nis,

A shaoghail ‘s a chruinne-chè -

‘S lèir dhomh na dh’fheuch sibh ri cur an cèill

Agus clann mhic-an-duine gun fheum,

Chanadh neach,

A’ dol aog is eug,

Mo chreach, air d’ fheadh

Agus na bric a’ falbh

Ris is leis an t-sruth

An Allt Caillte ‘s Allt Innis Nèill

‘S Allt Dhuisdeil ‘s iad nan leum

‘S nan lì ‘s iad gun ghuth

Gun ghabadh, balbh

Bodhar mu seach

Agus na h-ògain ri beadradh

Agus na h-eòin ri seinn

Bho ghlasadh gu eadradh

Agus na seilleanan an lùib nan geug

Bho ‘n-dè no bhon a’ bhòn-dè

‘S Tòrr an Daimh is Ladhar Bheinn

Is na speuran gu lèir bhuam ris

Ris a’ chamhanaich gun neul

‘S ris a’ chamhanaich an lùib nan reul.

Aye, aye, that’s changed days for you now, lifeworld, universe – I can see what you were trying to say with mankind helpless and useless, one might say, decaying and dying, all about you and the salmon and trout going with and against the current in the burns at Allt Caillte and Allt Innis Nèill and Duisdale Burn, in spate and with not a sound, deaf-and-dumb-stagnant turns about and the saplings and the wee lambs frolicking and the birds singing from greygreen lockdawn to milking-time and the bees beambowbendamong the youthnymphbranches since yesterday or the day before and the hill at Tòrr an Daimh and the mountain of Ladhar Bheinn over there so clear in the dawn without a cloud and in the dusk beambowbendamong the stars.

Là-fèille na Buaidhe ga chomharrachadh

Is an saoghal fo ghlasadh-sluaigh

Sa Chèitean Earraich

Aig a’ chuimhneachan-chogaidh

Taobh ris a’ chladh

Ann an Cille Mhoire

‘S gun bodach an làthair

Ach am pìobaire

Na sheasamh dìreach

Tiotan ri nuallan

Is an uair sin an t-sàmhchair

Aig aon uair deug sa mhadainn.

Victory Day being celebrated and the world in lockdown in springtime in May at the war memorial beside the graveyard in Kilmore and no old men present, only the piper standing up straight playing a lowlament for a wee while and and that weatherhourtime then the silence at 11 o’clock in the morning.

Dh’èirich mi tràth

Didòmhnaich ris a’ ghlasadh

Is cha do dh’fhairich mi sluagh timcheall

Cruinn còmhla mar phoball

Bhuam ann an Cille Mhoire

‘S mi dol seachad air mo shlighe

‘S chunnaic mi bhuam an dèidh sin

Timcheall air na clachan-cinn

De lusan agus de shìtheanan

A’ cromadh is a’ lùbadh air a’ mhadainn

Mar gum b’ ann ag ùrnaigh

‘S ri gàirdeachas gun ghuth.

I got up prayer-time-mealearly on Sunday during greygreen lockdown and didn’t hear folk gathered around as a congregation over there at the church in Kilmore as I went past on my way and I saw then around the headstones all these plantweeds and knollflowers bending and bowing in the morning like they were praying and rejoicing without a voice-sound.

‘S ann a chaidh mi sa ghlasadh

Anns a’ Chèitean Earraich

Sìos gu Coill’ a’ Ghasgain

Far an deach mi ‘s mo laochan

Agus an tè a bh’ ann

Uair a bh’ ann leis na big

A dh’altachadh nan geug

Is an raineach suas ris na gàirdeanan

Is na h-ògain air feadh an àite

‘S de chasan-searraich

Is de ghathan-grèine

‘S iad a’ boillsgeadh an lùib nam beangan

Is nam faillean is nan gallan

Is a’ falbh ann am plathadh.

During the greygreen lockdown in spring I went down to the woods in the Gasgan where myself and your man and herself went once with the wee ones to stretch our nymphraybranchlimbs and the bracken up to your oxters and the wee twiglambs all over the place and the foalfoot-sunbeams and springsproutrays of sunlight beamgleamglittering beambowbendamong the boughbranches and young scionsuckersaplingshoots and going off in a puff-flashglanceinstant.

Plathadh eile ‘s an glasadh ann fhathast:

Bealach na Bà gu h-àrd ri fàire

‘S Còig Peathraichean Chinn Tàile

‘S Pabaigh ‘s Langaigh gu h-ìseal

Sa chuan ag èirigh na fhairge

‘S cinn-ròin a’ tulgadh is a’ turracail

Suas is sìos is air ais is air adhart

Is na faoileagan ri sgreuchail

Is na h-eathraichean ri port.

Another puff-flashglanceinstant and the greygreen lockdown still in place: Bealach na Bà up there on the horizing and the Five Sisters of Kintail and Pabbay and Langay down there in the harbour of the oceanbay risebecoming a stormy sea and buoys like seals’ heads rolling and rocking up and down and back and forth and the whitewave-crestgulls screeching and the boats storm-tied.

An Cèitean anns a’ ghlasadh,

Chan ann, anns a’ ghormadh

Agus bròg na cuthaige

‘S an t-athair-liath ‘s an raineach uaine

‘S iad a’ nochdadh anns a’ ghàrradh

Agus an Cèitean anns a’ ghealadh

Agus fodham ann an glasach

Air an Druim Bhàn, a’ suathadh

Ri mo chasan, de chanach an t-slèibhe

Air gasadh air feadh an àite.

In springtime and summertime in May during lockdown, in the blue grey and green morning and the green cowslips-and-cuckooflowers-and-commonbutterworts-and-violets-and-bluebells and wild clary and ribwort and bracken nakedviewappearing in the peat-stackwallgarden and then May all white and bright and beneath me in a green field on the backrideg on Druim Bàn, hand-ringingafflictionstir-rubbing against my feet, all thet bog-cotton shootsprouting up all over the place.

Agus dìobardan ann ris a’ ghlasadh

Anns an Ògmhios agus na gucagan

Air faoisgneadh air feadh an àite

‘S fiù ‘s na craobhan-brèige fo bhlàth,

Seall air taobh thall na Linne,

Bloighean den t-sneachda bho shean.

In a will-o’-the-wisp heat-haze in lockdawn in June and the bellbobbinbubblebuds bursting out all over the place and even the conifers in warmblossombloom, showlook on the far side of the Sound, little fragments of old snow.

Ann an Cille Mhoire sa ghlasadh,

Dithis aon dà shlat bho chèile

‘S iad a’ lomadh an fheòir

Sa chlachan a chaidh a dhùnadh

Is a chur fo chlag-smàlaidh

‘S a tha fosgladh a-rithist às ùr

Far an do dh’fhàs is an do dh’fhalbh

Lus a’ chinn ‘s an t-sòbhrag an toiseach,

Bròg na cuthaige ‘s a’ chaorag-lèana,

Lus an easbaig is lus an ime

‘S lus an tàlaidh ‘s mu dheireadh

Meuran nan daoine marbha.

In Kilmore in the greygreen lockdawn, two people keeping their distance as they barecut the grass in the stony village churchyard which was closed and curfewed and is reopening where the daffodils and primroses at first, the bluebells-and-cuckooflowers-and-commonbutterwort-and-cowslips-and-violets and ragged robin, the ground-elder and gowans and common butterwort and early purple orchid and at last the foxgloves grew in the wild and have gone.

A’ caitheamh nan slat againn

Go moch anns a’ ghlasadh

Aig Abhainn Cheann Locha leis fhèin,

Tha sinn astar bho chèile ‘s còmhla

Ri chèile san àm cheudna -

E fhèin leis fhèin air an dara ceann

Agus mise leam fhìn air a’ cheann eile

Nar seasamh ‘s a’ feitheamh fad na tìde

Gun ghuth gun ghabadh eadarainn

‘S gun ghrèim againn air a’ cheann mu dheireadh.

Wastecasting our cockrods early in the greengrey lockdawn with himself, we’re keeping our distance and together at the same time, himself on his own at one headend and then me on my own at the other headend standing and watchwaiting all the weathertidetime without a bardtauntvoiceword or a mouthsound eitherbothbetween us or a holdbite in the heel of the hunt.

Dh’fhairich mi nam dhùisg nam aisling

Nam shìneadh air an Druim Bhàn

Agus a’ cur fallais ris a’ ghlasadh

Ri beul gorm an là san taobh eile

Den ghort, prasgan fodham nan sgalagan

Fon ghrèin a’ sgoltadh nan clach

Rin cuid luinneagan bho mhoch gu dubh

‘S iad a’ cur chan ann ris a’ mhòine

No ri cartadh no fasgadh a’ chruidh

No glanadh a’ bhaile ‘s a’ chùil

No ri buain na rainich no càil

Ach ris a’ chanach fo mo spòig.

I feltheard awake in my night-maredreamvision laid out on the backridge at Druim Bàn and sweating early in the blueblack morning in the greygreen lockdown on the other side of the cornfaminefield a flockgang under me of slaves under the sun splitting the testiclerocks at their working songs from earlydark to blackdark not at the peats or cleansedriving or shadowsheltercleansepenning cattle from the township common grazing or gathering bracken or cabbage or any strangthdesirething but picking the cotton under my feet.

A’ coiseachd leam

Ris a’ ghlasadh

Air a’ chanach

Air Meall an Fhuarain

Agus aig Bealach nan Cas

Is Tobar an Dòmhnaich

Agus air ais an uair sin

Agus mo cheum

Gun a bhith cas

A’ suathadh ris an fhearann

Is bàrr na talmhainn

Ann an cuarain-chonnlaich.

Walking in the greengrey lockdawn on the bog-cotton at Meall an Fhuarain and the mountain pass and the well and back that weatherhourtime then with my footstep light, hand-ringingafflictionstir-rubbing against the ground and the grass in straw sandals.

Agus an galar fhathast ga sgaoileadh

Anns a’ ghlasadh

Agus an crodh-dubh

‘S gun duine nan gaoith,

Seall, air sliabh

Chnoc na Buaile Càrnaich

Agus thall air a’ mhòintich

Air Cnoc an Fhreiceadain ‘s ri thaobh

Cnoc Beul an Àtha Ruaidh

‘S iad a’ nuallanaich

Is a’ carachadh cho slaodach

Is nach mòr gum biodh

Duine sam bith ga mhothachadh.

With disease still spreading in greengrey lockdawn, and the black Highland cattle, with nobody upwind or downwind of them, showlook, on the common grazing and over on the moor lowing and moving so slowly nobody would notice.

Giùlan ann an Cille Mhoire

Sa Chèitean is an sluagh

Gun a bhith cruinn

Ach ann an sreath

‘S toirmeasg air seinn

Ri linn a’ ghlasaidh

‘S a h-uile duine

Nan seasamh-soraidh dìreach

Gun ghuth, nan tost

Agus, ga bhriseadh,

Seall, a’ dol seachad

Is an uair sin a’ stad

Is an uair sin a’ falbh

Tiotan bhuainn, am post

Air a cheann-turais thall ud

Air an taobh eile den challaid

Air a chuairt mar a bha riamh

A’ liubhairt bho thaigh gu taigh.

A standingbiercarriagefuneral in Kilmore between springtime and summertime in May and the crowd not gathered round but in a long furrowswatheflockline with playsinging prohibited in greengrey lockdown and every manperson standing straightjust without a bardtauntwordsound, in silence and, breaking it, going past and that houtime then stopping and that weatherhourtime then going off a wee bit from us, the post on his business over there on the other side of the elegyfence on his rounds as ever delivering from house to house.

Agus glasadh an t-sluaigh

Gun a bhith air crìonadh,

Nam shuidhe leam fhèin

Eadar am feasgar is an fhionnairidh

‘S fèath gheal

San Linne Shlèitich thall,

Chì mi sa mhòintich

Bhuam na caoraich

Is iad a’ dol à sealladh

Agus, fo mo chasan,

Seall, sa ghàrradh,

Na neòineanan a’ dùnadh.

With greengrey lockdown still here, sitting on my own eitherbothbetween the afternoonevening and the gloaming and a deadwhite calm on the Sound of Sleat, I see on the mossmoor over there the sheep going out of view and, under my pathfeet, in the peat-stackwallgarden, showlook, the daisies closing.

Air giùlan bràthair-cèile

Dhòmhnaill Aonghais nach maireann

Agus gann duine beò ‘n làthair

Ann ri linn a’ ghlasaidh,

Fad na slighe sìos

Taobh ris an rathad-mhòr,

Seadh, an rathad buan ud

Air a bheil e a’ dol seachad

Eadar a’ Chille Mhòr is a’ Chille Bheag,

De dhaoine ‘s de chraobhan

A sheasas is a sheargas

A h-uile darnacha slat a’ nochdadh

Mar charaidean is mar chàirdean

An urram dhan fhear nach maireann,

A’ cromadh is a’ lùbadh fon oiteig

A’ sèideadh gu ciùin far na Linne.

At the standingbiercarriagefuneral of the brother-in-law of Donald Angus RIP with hardly a living soul battle-fieldsitepresent forduring greygreen lockdown, all the way down beside the main road, aye, that long, straight road they go down eitherbothbetween Kilmore and Kilbeg, all theose menpeople and branchtrees that standuendure and decay as relationfriends and friendrelations paying respect to the deceased nakedviewappearing every couple of yards as relationfriends and friendrelations paying respect to the deceased, bending and bowing in the breeze blowing silentgently from the Sound.

Uidh air n-uidh,

‘S ann a tha ‘n glasadh

A’ falbh ‘s a’ chlann

Agus an cànan

Sa bheil mi a’ fàgail slàn,

Cha chan mi buileach

Baileach a’ dol bàs,

Ach seall gun do shiubhail Iain MacAonghais

Agus thriall Aonghas Iain

A bh’ ann an tuath Chnoc Uaine na linn

‘S, ged nach can duine guth,

‘S ann a thàinig Coinneach ris fhèin

Agus chaochail Màiri Dhubh

‘S tha Donnchadh Òg ann an Dachaigh nan Sean

O chionn ùine nan cian

‘S Dòmhnall Bàn air a dhol dhachaigh.

Little by little, lockdown is going and the children and the language in which I’m saying farewell, I won’t say quite dying, but consider that John Angus has passed and Angus John who was on the hill in Knock has gone to the happy grounds and, though nobody says a word, Kenny ended it all and Marie’s no longer with us and Young Duncan’s in the Old Folks’ Home a long time and Donald has gone to his long home.

Nach truagh leat am bodach

Is e fhathast a’ sgiathadh

Agus a’ cumail a-staigh

Leis fhèin ri linn a’ ghlasaidh

‘S gus a bhith ga liathadh

Is a’ suathadh nan làmhan le siabann cruaidh

‘S a’ coimhead a-mach air an Linne Shlèitich

Agus àm an rionnaich air tighinn mu dheireadh

Agus air seanchas gun fhiaradh

Mu là biathadh a’ bhonnaich.

Pity the old man still shielding and keeping indoors to himself forduring lockdawn and losing his hair and wringrubbing his hands with hard soap and looking out on the Sound of Sleat now the mackerel have arrived at last and reminiscing all day about when the barley was ripe.

Agus cuideachd ri linn a’ ghlasaidh

Feasgar anns an Àth Leathann

Far an tigeadh iad

Cruinn còmhla ri saoirsneachd,

A’ càradh is a’ togail

Is ag ùrachadh, seall,

Bothan nam fear falamh

‘S a h-uile duine

Air ais a-staigh leis fhèin

Mar iomadh fear eile.

And friendcompanyalso forduring greygreen lockdown in the afternoonevening in Broadford where they used to gather door-frameround at libertyjoinery, turnmending and rearexcitelearnbuilding and greenrenovating, showsee, the empty men’s shed empty and every manperson back inside at home on his own like many another manone.

A’ cumail air leth ri linn a’ ghlasaidh,

Chì mi sa Chèitean sa ghrèin

Fear a’ sgaradh nan uan

Is air a’ Chaol Chanach bhuam

Thall air fàire, loingeas

Agus eadar an dithis,

Feannag ris a’ chladach lom,

A’ faire ‘s a’ feitheamh.

Keeping a distance forduring the greengrey lockdawn, I see between springtime and summertime in May in the sun a man separating the lambs and ewes and out there on the Sound of Canna on the horizon, exileships and between the two, a lazy-bedhoodie-crow by the bare shore, waitingwatching and watchingwaiting.

Agus na ba-laoigh sa gheumnaich

Agus an glasadh ann

‘S mi nam shuidh’ air tulaich

A’ sealltainn a-mach air a’ Chuan Siar

Mar a bha san àm a dh’aom

Na hì rì ri rì ‘s e m’ ionndrainn

Chan e ‘m bothan beag barraich

Ris an cuir mi mo chùl

A-màireach na ‘n-earar

Ach an dùthaich thall

Gu cian thar na fairge bhuam

Air nach triall mi a-rithist a-chaoidh.

With the cattle bellowing and calves lowing in the greygreen lockdawn as I sit on a hillock showlooking out on the Atlantic as in the good old days what I miss is not the wee hut on the shieling which I’ll turn my back on tomorrow or the day after but the country over there far across the stormsea from me to which I’ll never deathtravel again.

Dh’fhalbh na cuileagan-beaga

‘S luchd nan làithean-saora

‘S an luchd-turais mu dheireadh

Agus an glasadh ann fhathast.

Feasgar chaidh mi cuairt

Eadar a’ Chlachaig is an Fhaoilinn

Agus chunnaic mi bhuam Iain Aonghais Dhòmhnaill

Agus e air a’ ghlùin ris a’ mhaorach

Air a’ cheann thall

Eadar Sgeir nan Gillean

Agus Eilean nan Caorach

Dìreach mar a bha e riamh.

The midgies have gone and the last holidayer and visitor at last and greygreen lockdown is still here. In the evening I went round the shore from Clachaig to Faoilinn and I saw in the distance John Angus on his generation-knees at the shellfish at the far end between the skerry and the island like he and it always was.

Nach truagh leat mo laochan

Air a chumail aig baile

Ri linn glasadh an t-sluaigh

‘S air èirigh gun chadal san oidhche

‘S a’ coimhead a-mach air an uinneig

A-null dhan t-sliabh mu Bharabhaig

Far nach deach falaisg a’ Ghearrain

A chumadh iad nan latha

‘S nan linn ‘s a-riamh

A chumail idir am-bliadhna.

Pity your man kept at villagefarmhome forduring greengrey lockdawn having got up without sleeping in the night and looking out the recesswindow over to the bent-grasshill-side around Baravaig where the swaling in February they used to hold in their day and generationtime and always wasn’t held at all this year.

Fèath Didòmhnaich

Eadar gheal is dhubh

‘S an glasadh ann

Agus thall a’ siubhal, eathar

Ciùin agus rèidh

San Linne Shlèitich

Bho Loch Nibheis gu Loch Shubhairne

‘S taigh-solais Eilean Iarmain

Na shoillseachadh thall ud

Is an taobh eile na Linne

Na seasamh gu h-àrd

Ìomhaigh Moire Mhàthair.

A dead calm on Sunday in greengrey lockdawn and over there deathseekmoving, a wee boat in the Sound of Sleat from Loch Nevis to Loch Hourn and Isle Ornnsay light lighting over there and on the other side of the Sound standing up high a ghostimagestatute of the Blessed Virgin.

Aig meadhan-latha,

Na geòidh-ghlasa sa gheamhar

Anns an achadh-bhuana

Eadar a’ Chille Bheag is a’ Chille Mhòr

Is iad nan stad gun char tiotan

Mar gum b’ eadh nam poball

A’ cromadh an cinn

Ri linn seirm Clag an Aingil.

At mid-day, the greylag geese in the blades of corn in the harvest-field between Kilbeg and Kilmore standing without moving for a wee while like a congregation bowing their heads at the sound of the Angelus Bell.

Ann an Àird Shlèite ris a’ ghlasadh

Anns an fhèath dhubh ‘s gheal,

 A’ laighe gun fhiost’ air an lot

Agus an sìol ga fhrasadh

 Is iad a’ sealltainn mun cuairt orra seal

‘S a’ falbh, sgaoth ghèadh-got.

In Aird at greengrey lockdawn in a dead calm, landing suddenly on the croft where the seed is being showerscattered and showlooking around for a while and leaving, a flock of brent geese.

Didòmhnaich agus an glasadh ann,

Chaidh mi seachad air Cille Mhoire

‘S gun ann de dh’fhuaim

Ach na sgothan ri gliong gliong air chruaidh

Mar chaolach-aifrinn

‘S mar cheòlain air amhaichean a’ chruidh

‘S an sluaigh a’ triall air an imrich

Air Àirigh na Suirghe

‘S air an Àirigh Fhraoich

Air ais anns an àm a dh’aom.

On Sunday in greygreen lockdawn I went past the church in Kilmore and the only sound the shelteryachts clinktinkling hard at anchor like a mass bell or the little bells around the cows’ necks and folk deathtravelling and migrating to the shieling back in the old days.

Là dubh dorcha, gu cruinn

Ann an Cille Mhoire ‘s an glasadh ann,

A’ cumail air leth ‘s fir an tòrraidh

‘S iad a’ siubhal ‘s a’ tighinn gu stad,

Bha mi dìreach an dèidh sin

A’ coimhead bhuam agus thall ud,

Bha na bàirlinnean a’ briseadh

Air na bodhachan ‘s air tìr-mòr,

Gainmheinean Mhòrair

Cho geal ri lèine-aifrinn.

On a dark black day, gathered around the churchyard in Kilmore in greygreen lockdown, keeping apart and the men in the burial procession deathseekwalking and stopping, I was straightup just after all that looking away and over there the removalbreakers were breaking on the breakerblinder-reefs and on the mainland the particlesandy-beaches of Morar as brightwhite as a surplice.

Agus am foghar air tighinn

Agus an glasadh ann

Agus an galar bho shean

Agus bho dh’fhàgadh gun chumhachd sinn

Bho thàinig an doineann,

Ghabh mi sgrìob anns an Fhaoilinn

Far an rachainn daonnan

Leis a’ chloinn gun tighinn

Air MacAonghais is MacFhionghain

Is an Dòmhnallach nan linn

Agus mi dìreach a’ bruidhinn rium fhìn

Agus am builgean ‘s na bàirlinnean

A’ bualadh air a’ mhol mhìn

Is a’ briseadh mu mo chasan.

With autumn having come in the greengrey lockdawn with the old disease still here and as we were left without power since the storm came, I took a walk on the shore at Faoilinn where I used to go always with the familychildren, not forgetting MacInnes and MacKinnon and MacDonald in their generationday, just straightup talking to myself and the bladderwrack bubbles and reefbreakers hitting the silky shingle and burstbreaking about my feet.

Shìos air feadh a’ chladaich

Fo Chille Mhoire Didòmhnaich,

Tha e gun ghuth ‘s gun ghabadh

Ri linn a’ ghlasaidh

‘S gun ann ach gusgal nan ròn

Agus iad nan sìneadh

Is gam blianadh fhèin air na clachan

Far an tathaicheadh na bodaich.

Down along the stonysandy channelshore below the churchyard at Kilmore on Sunday forduring greengrey lockdawn, there’s not a bardtaintvoicesound to be heard but the blubberwailing of the fetterfrotherseals stretched out weakbleachbasking on the testiclerocks where the oldsealcodboys used to haunt.

Agus a’ chlann air ais a-staigh

Turas eile ri linn a’ ghlasaidh

‘S gun a bhith sa chladach,

Bha mi a’ sealltainn bhuam air iseanan-fionnaidh

De dh’fhachaich air Eilean Sionnaich

Air an glacadh an cois na Dòrnaidh

‘S air an trèigsinn ‘s am fàgail gun bhiathadh

Agus cha mhòr gun itealaich

Agus an uair sin iad a’ sgaoileadh

Is a’ sgapadh is ag èirigh

Gun fhiosta mun Linne Shlèitich

Is chan ann a lìon aon is aon mar na geòidh,

Dìreach an aon ealtainn dhiubh

‘S an fhàire ga briseadh

A-mach às mo raon-seallaidh

Gu crìochan Thìr a’ Gheallaidh.

With the familychildren back inside at home another journeytime forduring greengrey lockdawn and not on the stonysandy shore, I was showwatching shearwater fledgelings on the island of Eilean Sionnaich caught legbeside the Dornie and abandoned and quackdestinyleft without feeding and almost without flutterflight and that weatherhourtime then parting and scattering and ascending suddenly around the Sound of Sleat not one by one like the geese, just straight up in one razorflock as the horizondawn was breaking out of my range of vision to the borderends of the Promised Land.

Nach sinn a chunnaic an dà ràith

‘S an glasadh air a bhith ann cho fada sin:

Agus a’ chlann air falbh mu dheireadh,

Ghabh mi turas ann an Crosabhaig

Agus an t-sìde mun cuairt a’ caochladh no mùthadh

Agus a’ chiad chur den t-sneachd’ a’ nochdadh thall

Anns a’ Chuilitheann air cho beag

Agus gu h-àrd na daimh am badeigin,

Ged nach eil mi gam faicinn, ri bùirich

Agus na cuiseagan mu dheireadh den chanaich mu mo bhuinn

Agus mo bhuinn a’ dol an sàs anns na caochain

Agus na feannagan a’ dlùthachadh is a’ goirseil

A’ dol à faireachdainn air an fhàire sa Chuan Sgìth

‘S an uair sin gun fhiost’ a’ tilleadh.

We’ve seen it all in the two seasons since greengrey lockdown began: with the familychildren gone away at last, I went walking in Crossavaig and the temps all around decaychanging – or deathchanging – and the first fall of snow nakedviewappearing over on the Cuilinn, however small and high up out loud the stags in some bushbunchplace, though I don’t see them, bellowing and the last stalks of the bog-cotton aginst my feet and my feet getting stuck in the blind eddystreams and the lazy-bedhoodies thicknearing and crowing out of smellfeelhearing on the dawnhorizon in the Minch and that weatherhourtime then suddenly without knowing, returning.

Seo sinn a’ cumail a-staigh

Ri fasgadh

Ris a’ ghlasadh

Agus rud beag am falach

Agus tìr-mòr air ar beulaibh

‘S an rathad-mòr air ar cùlaibh

Gun mhothachadh

Air an rotaich bho thuath

‘S air a’ ghailleann ag èirigh

Gun fhiosta sa Chuan Sgìth

‘S na daimh anns a’ bhùirich

Thall ann am Monadh Meadhanach.

Here we are keeping inside shadowsheltering in the greengrey lockdawn and a wee bit hidden facing the mainland with the main road high up behind us, not aware of the thrashdashgale from the farmpeoplenorthcountry and the storm rising suddenly without knowing in the Minch and the mastbeamstags rutbellowing over there on your average heathermoor in Monadh Meadhanach.

A’ siubhal dhomh san Fhaoilinn

Leam fhìn ri glasadh an t-sluaigh,

Chan fhairich mi de dh’fhuaim

Ach na geòidh nan sgaorr

A’ gal ràc! ràc! bir! bir!

Gu h-àrd air an imrich

Agus toirm nan tonn ri tràigh fodham

Agus thall ud gusgal nan ròn

Deathseekwalking on the shore at Faoilinn on my own in greengrey lockdawn, I don’t smellfellhear any sound but the flock of geese crying and honking loudly on high migrating and the trampledin of the waves on the shore beneath me and over there the fetterfrotherseals’ filthwailing.

Ghabh mi cuairt leis fhèin

Ris a’ ghlasadh ann am Barabhaig

Agus bruach Allt na Bèiste

‘S e a’ siubhal seachad na dheann

‘S mi fhìn a’ dol far na coise sa bhoglaich

Air feadh an àite gun fhiaradh

Agus b’ fheudar dhomh dol air mo ghlùin

Agus cromadh an lùib nan geug

Is nan gasan os mo chionn

‘S iad a’ sìneadh a-mach fa mo chomhair

An uair sin agus cha mhòr

A’ beantainn ri bàrr an uisge.

I went for a roundwalk with himself in greengrey lockdawn to Baravaig and the clumpbank of the burn at Allt na Bèiste deathseekgoing past on a down-pourdash and I lost my feet in the boggy ground all over the place all the time and I had to go on my generationknee and beambowbend among  the nymphbranches and small young-manbranches over my head and they startstretched out in front of me that weatherhourtime then and almost touched the creamcroptop of the raintearswater.

Là garbh ciùin eile sa ghlasadh

Agus an dithis againn a-staigh nar n-àbhaist

Agus na fuaimean a’ dol a dh’fhairich sinn

Uair is a-rithist – an t-inneal-nigheadaireachd

A’ falbh mun cuairt is mun cuairt,

Na soithichean a’ tighinn gu stad

Leis an aon bhìog bheag mu dheireadh,

An coire ri gaoir is an impis goil thairis,

Allt na Bèiste na lighe bhuainn gun fhois

Is am fèath ‘s e ‘g èirigh na dhoineann.

Another very rough and calmquiet day in greygreen lockdawn and the two of us indoors at home as usual and the sounds we’ve feltheard weatherhourtime and weatherhourtime again going – the washing machine going round and round, the dishes finishing with the same one last wee beep at last, the cauldronkettle shiverpainrumblehumming about to boil over, the burn at Allt na Bèiste over there in restless stagnating washingwaterspate and the gentle breeze rising up as a powerstorm.

Ris a’ ghlasadh ann an gaoth nan seicean,

Seall thall a’ bhratach a-nuas aig Eilean Iarmain

A’ flagadaich is a’ flapadaich a-null ‘s a-nall mar ghleicean.

In the greygreen lockdawn in a flyercold north-easterly wind in March, showsee over there the flag down at Isle Ornsay flopflapfluttering back and forth like a shuttlecock.

An dèidh dhomh dol seachad

Air Drochaid an Eilein

Thar a’ chaolais gu tìr-mòr thall

Sa ghlasadh a’ chiad turas

Bho thàinig aois a’ bhodaich orm,

‘S ann a fhuair mi stad

Agus chaidh mo thoirt air ais

Nuair a dh’fhairich mi bhuam faram

Nan roth ‘s iad a’ tionndadh

Mun cuairt aig a’ charbad-iarainn

A’ dlùthachadh gu mall

Ris a’ cheann-uidhe mu dheireadh.

After I’d crossed over the bridge at the island over the ferryfirthnarrows to the mainland over there in the greengrey lockdawn the first journeytime since I became an old mutchkinsealcodghostman, I got a stopstart and was taken aback when I feltheard over there the rhythmnoise of the wheels turning and returning round of a train lateslowly warpnearing the final destination at last.

Ann an Caol Acain air chuairt

Feasgar ìseal Didòmhnaich

Agus glasadh an t-sluaigh ann fhathast

Gun lasachadh is an Dùbhlachd air lom,

‘S e na dh’fhidir mi romham

An smùidreach ag èirigh dhan adhar

Agus bodach na sheasamh leis fhèin

Agus ri chois ablach coin

A’ sealltainn a-mach dìreach

Air na h-eathraichean air chruaidh

Sa chala gun charachadh idir,

Cho ciùin, cho bog balbh. 

In Kyleakin on a roundboundrepetitiontrip in the low afternoon on Sunday with the greengrey lockdown still not easing and the Decemberdoldrums barelooming, what I saw before me was the drizzlecolumn of smoke rising up to the sky and an old mutchkinsealcodghostman standing on his own and legbeside him an old dog just showlooking out straight ahead at the wee boats at hardanchor in the last-placeharbour without any movement, so softdumbcalm.

Seall a’ chorra-ghritheach

Gun charachadh

Fad’ às thall ud

Na h-aon samhla san tiùrr

Air Sgeir nan Gillean

Agus an glasadh ann

‘S i’ a cumail dìreach

Air leth leatha fhèin

Agus, air cho faisg is gum biodh a nead,

Ged a thigeadh tu fad an sgadain

Air neo dà cheum na gaoith,

A’ togail gun fhiosta dhan adhar.

Showsee the grey heron not moving and remote over there, a very appartitionsymbolshape in the high-water-mark flotsam-and-jetsam-pile on the rock in the greengrey lockdawn just keeping erect and to herself and, however near her nest might be, if you come within two paces down-wind of her, taking off suddeenly to the cloudsky.

Chaidh mi cuairt anns a’ ghlasadh

Agus thall ud an t-anart

A’ plaightrigeadh is a’ flagadaich

Agus na faoileagan ri glagadaich

Agus, ri raoic air Àrd Snaosaig, dà mhart

Agus na h-earbaill ac’ a’ casadh.

I went for a repetitionwalk in the  greygreen lockdawn and over there the clothes on the line were flopflapping in the wind and the whitewave-crestgulls clackclucking and, squakroaring on the hill at Ard Snaosaig, two cows and their tails windswishing. 

Ag èirigh sa ghlasadh Là Buidheachais

Ged a bhiodh an Dùbhlachd oirnn,

Fhathast, nach buidhe dhuinn

Gun sìde nan seachd sian ann

Ach, air a chaochladh, an solas

Thall ud air cho fann

A’ boillsgeadh air na bruthaichean air tìr-mòr

Is a’ faoisgneadh air cùl nan sgòth

‘S an Linne Shlèiteach na fèath

‘S lasair-choille ri ceilear

An lùib nan geug air crìonadh

Agus na neòineanan ris

Mu na duilleagan a’ seargadh

Anns a’ ghàrradh nar fianais.

Getting up in the greygreen lockdawn on Thanksgiving Day though the December gloom is upon us, still, the weather’s nae bad but, au deathchangecontraire, the light over there however faint is beamgleaming on the hills and emerging as a heavenly body behind the clouds and the Sound of Sleat calm and a goldfinch concealchirping beambowbendamong the withered youthnymphbranches and the daisies out among the faded leaves ou there in the peat-stackdykegarden.

 A’ siubhal air a’ chladach

Leam fhìn tràth

Là na h-Aoise dhomh

‘S Là na Bliadhn’ Ùir’ air a dubhadh a-mach

Ri linn glasadh an t-sluaigh

‘S gun duine beò nam ghaoith,

Chan eil romham ann ach corra-ghritheach

Thall ud gun charachadh

Air Creag Iain Dhonnchaidh

‘S an uair sin gun fhiost’ ag èirigh

Dha na speuran a’ glanadh

Agus thall air a’ bhearradh

Air cùl Chnoc na Buaile Càrnaich

Gu h-àrd, an crodh Gàidhealach

Ri geumnaich is nuallanaich

Is an uair sin feadhainn a’ teàrnadh

Agus feadhainn a’ falbh

A-mach às an t-sealladh

Air taobh thall a’ bhealaich.

Deathseekwalking on the sandychannelshore on my own prayermeal-timeearly on my birthday with New Year’s Day blackcancelled in greygreen lockdown and not a living manperson windnear me, there’s only a heron there not moving on the rock and that weatherhourtime then suddenly rising to the skies clearing and over on the cuttingridge behind the hill at Cnoc na Buaile Càrnaich loudhigh, the Highland cattle lowing and bellowing and that weatherhourtime then some after-birthdescending and some going off out of sight on the other side of the passgap.

Là Fhèill Brìde ‘s a’ chlann

Ag èirigh ris a’ ghlasadh fhathast

Agus togail air an t-sìde

‘S lus an Aisig a’ togail

Ceann shìos air an raon

Agus reothart-nan-eun gu h-ìseal

Agus gu h-àrd na caoraich

A’ nochdadh uair a-rithist

Air cùl Chnoc na Buaile Càrnaich

Fad na tìde ‘s air feadh an àite.

Seadh, seadh, ma-thà,

Nach ann oirnn a thàinig an t-aon là.

On Groundhog Day the familychildren are still getting up in the greygreen lockdawn and the temps picking up and the daffodils raising up their heads down in the mossygreenup-land-down and it’s spring tide for the birds down there and up there the sheep nakedviewappearing one more weathertimehour at the back of the hill at Cnoc na Buaile Càrnaich all the temps and all over the place. Aye, aye, le plus onesame old sameone old changed days no change all the same.

San Fhaoilleach, air m’ ais

Ann an Cnoc Armadail

Far an robh ‘n tè a bh’ ann

‘S an dèanamaid sùgradh nar linn

Is an gàrradh fodham gu h-ìseal

Air a ghlasadh fad a’ gheamhraidh

‘S na coilltean air an gearradh

A’ lobhadh is am fasgadh air falbh

Agus a’ siubhal seachad, bus

Fada gun nochdadh, mall is falamh

‘S an dithis againn, mo chreach,

Nar bodach agus cailleach.

During the cold winds in January and February, back on Armadale Hill where herself was and we had fun in our generationday and the peat-bankdykegarden below me down there greygreendawnlocked all winter and the woods felled rotting and their shadowshelter gone and deathseekgoing past, a bus a longtime not nakedappearing, slowlate and poorempty and the two of us an old mutchkinsealcodghostman and an old nunhag.

A’ siubhal sìos Là nan Leannan

Leam fhìn ris a’ ghlasadh

Eadar a’ Chlachaig is an Fhaoilinn

Eadar tiùrr an làin ‘s an tràigh,

Thàinig mi air breaban de bhròig

Agus ghabh mi beachd an uair sin

Air ais air na làithean

A bha sinn uile-gu-lèir cho sona

‘S a bha ‘n latha cho fada

Gun tighinn air mìos nam pòg.

Deathseekwalking down on Valentine’s Day on my own in the greygreen lockdawn either both between Clachaig and Faoillin eitherbothbewtween the flotsam-and-jetsamhigh-watermark and the sandy-shorelowtide, I happened on an old shoe and I looked back that weatherhourtime then to the days when we were all so  happy as a sandboy, not to mention the honeymoon.

Chì mi bhuam agus an glasadh

A’ sgapadh beag is beag

Eadar Gob Bharabhaig is Camas Bharabhaig

Far an siùbhlainn le m’ àilleagan,

A’ grunndachadh, air bhogadan

Is a’ tormaileadh gun amas

A-null is a-nall, suas is a-nuas

Is le riachd geur àrd ag èirigh

‘S a’ togail dha na speuran

Gun fhiosta, sgiotadh a sgràilleagan.

I see over there as the greygreen lockdawn lifts little by little eitherbothbetween Gob Bharabhaig and Camas Bharabhaig where I used to deathseekwalk with herself, groundwading and bobdipping excitedly and aimlessly wandering back and forth and up and down and with a soursharp loudhigh cry rising up to the skies suddenly, a scatterfling of sandpipers.

Fiù ‘s ged a bhiodh e

Ri linn glasadh an t-sluaigh,

Seall, a-nis is am Mìos Marbh seachad,

Na th’ ann de thogail-inntinn ‘s de thogail-cridhe

‘S lus an Aisig thall ud

A’ cinntinn is a’ tighinn am blàth

Gu h-ìseal eadar na clachan-cinn

Ann an Cille Mhoire sa mhadainn.

Even though it’s in lockdown, showsee, now that the Dead Month is passed, all that mindlifting heartlifting stuff and the daffodils over there growing and coming into warmbloom down eitherbothbetween the headstones in Kilmore in the morning.

Ann am baile-bàn Bhoraraig

Là balbh ‘s t-earrach air lom,

Cha do dh’fhairich mi bhuam

Air mo shiubhal guth duine

Feasgar ach gròc gròc nam fitheach

Agus gurra nan cearc-fraoich

Agus mè mè nan caorach

Agus nuallan a’ chruidh Ghàidhealaich

Agus glìtheag nam faoileag

Agus an rot air mol a’ chladaich

Agus ròmhanaich is gàir a’ chuain

Agus de dh’fheannagan air feannagan

Hi ù ra bhò rò hug èile

Ri linn glasadh an t-sluaigh.

In the cleared village of Boreraraig on a dumbdeadquiet day with spring barelooming, I didn’t hearfeel over there on my deathseekjourney around me the bardtauntvoice of a manperson in the evening but the croaking of the ravens and sound of the grouse and the sheeps’ baaing and the Highland cattle lowing and the cawing of the white-wavecrestsea-gulls and the surf breaking on the shingle on the sandyshore and the distant roar of the oceanbay and all those lazy-bedhoodie-crows on the hoodie-crowlazy beds forduring the greengrey lockdawn.

Bha dùil agam gun do dh’fhairich mi bhuam

A’ dol seachad air a’ chlachan

Thall ann an Cille Mhoire dhomh

Ri glasadh an t-sluaigh

‘S e cho cianail balbh

Clann-nighean an sgadain

Agus balaich an iasgaich

A’ toirt a-mach is a’ gabhail an fhuinn

Agus aig an aon àm

Cuideachd bhon àm a dh’fhalbh

Na mnathan-luaidh còmhla cruinn

A’ dèanamh gàirdeachas, ri sùgradh,

He ‘n clò-dubh, he ‘n clò-dubh,

Mo laochan fhèin an t-èideadh,

Ri sìneadh is ri baslachadh

Is ri coisrigeadh an aodaich.

I poor-creaturethought I feltheard over there going past the stonevillagechurch-yard on the other side in Kilmore in the greygreen lockdawn so dumbdeadquiet the herring girls and the fishing lads giving out and receiving the line of the psalm and at the onesame time ancestorcompanyalso from time past the waulking women rejoicing and frolicflirting, startstretching and cupclapping and consecrating the cloth

Coma leat nach fhada

Gum bi na cuileagan-beaga

‘S iad a’ suathadh ri do chraiceann

‘S glasadh an t-sluaigh gun lasachadh

Is nach lèir dhomh na h-Eileanan sa cheathach –

Air mo shiubhal an-diugh cho math

Gu h-ìseal sa Mhonadh Mheadhanach,

Dh’fhairich mi gu h-àrd os mo chionn

Ged nach biodh ann ach tiotan

A’ chiad uiseag den Chèitean.

Never mind that it won’t be long before the wee midgies are hand-ringingafflictionstir-rubbing against your skin and the greengrey lockdown hasn’t eased and I can’t see the Islands in the mist - on my deathseekwalkingperson today as well down in Monadh Meadhanach, I heardfelt loudhigh above me if only for a moment the first lark of springsummerMay.

Chì mi de bhailtean bàna,

Suidhisnis, Boraraig is Morsaig thall ud

Nam sheasamh mu rèiteach uaine

Dihaoine na Ceusta, bog balbh

Na là eadar dà shian

Agus glasadh an t-sluaigh ann

Agus na caoraich air fhuadan

Agus an Cuan Sgìth falamh de shoithichean

Agus mar uisge na stiùireach gu h-àrd

Ceiridh ‘s aon lorg-sgòtha

‘S an iarmailt liath ghorm air fàire

‘S grian an àigh ga dubhadh.

I see the white-empty homefarmtribevillages, Suishnish, Boraraig and Morsaig over by standing around a green settlementclearing on Good Friday, dead quiet on a pet day in greygreen lockdown and the sheep exilewandering and the Minch poorempty of vessels and like a ship’s wake up high cirrus clouds and one contrail and the grey greenblue firmament on the horizon and the glorious gravelsun blackmourningeclipsing and blackmourningeclipsed.

Là balbh dhomh ri linn glasadh an t-sluaigh

Ann an Cèitean na h-Òinsich

(Mar a bhiodh na bodaich ag ràdh),

Dh’fhairich mi bhuam a’ chailleach

Ag èigheachd a-mach na cainnt fhèin

Gun bhuaidh ris na caoraich

Is ris a’ chrodh Ghàidhealach

Thall air an Druim Bhàn

Agus coin Rhodesian ridgebacks gan cràdh:

Pruidh! Tu-ruith! Cior cior! Suc suc! Tiuth! 

In the dumbquiet greygreen lockdown in AprilFoolMayday (as the oldtimers would say in their day), I feltheard the cailleach death-watchcrying out in her own langue without any victoryeffect to the sheep and Highland cattle over on Druim Bàn and Rhodesian ridgebacks worrying them: Diugaidh! Cior cior! Suc suc! Tiuth! 

Tha Là Bealltainn ann

Agus an glasadh air sgaoileadh

Agus gun bhraon den driùchd

Ach rotach ann is fuachd

Is na dìtheanan gan sgapadh air feadh an àite

Mar an t-uisge coisrigte

‘S bròg na cuthaige ‘s na h-ògain air tighinn

Is thall ud – èist! – an sluagh

A’ togail na h-imrich às ùr

Is a’ triall air a’ Bhuaile Thodhair

Is air ais dhan Ruighe Bhuidhe

‘S gu Loch Àirigh na Suirghe.

It’s Mayday and the greengrey lockdawn is easing and there’s not a drizzledrop of drizzledew but a northerly thickspeedgale and the cold and the knollflowers being scattered all over the place like holy water and the cuckoo and the bluebells and the seedlingtwiglambs have come and on the other side – shut up and listen! – the spirit-worldcrowd furnitureflitting again in a deathflockprocession to the summer cattle-foldshieling in Buaile Thodhair and back to Ruighe Bhuidhe and to Loch Àirigh na Suirghe.

Air m’ ais air a’ bhlàr a-muigh

‘S glasadh an t-sluaigh ga sgaoileadh

Beag air bheag uidh air n-uidh,

Nach mi dh’fhàs cho mall

Anns an fhradharc nach lèir dhomh

Caora seach creag air a’ chàrn

Air Meall Dà-bheinn bhuam thall

Ach na dhèidh sin, a’ ghrian,

Seall, a’ faoisgneadh mu dheireadh

Far cùl nan sgòth, breac a’ mhuiltein

‘S fionnadh-gobhair, os mo chionn

Ged nach biodh ann ach plathadh.

Back outside on the white-faced plainswardmoorbattle-field and greygreen lockdown easing little by little I’ve  wastegrown so lateslowshort-sighted that I can’t make out a sheep from a cliffrock on the cairn on Meall Dà-bheinn over there but then, the gravelsun, showsee, coming out from behind the horizonclouds, cumulus and cirrus, if only for a puff-flashglanceinstant.

Agus glasadh an t-sluaigh ga sgaoileadh

Is a’ falbh air falbh mu dheireadh

Mar a tha ‘s an sneachd’ air bhàrr

Beinn Sgritheall thall air tìr-mòr,

Mhothaich mi bhuam a’ dol seachad dhomh

A’ druideadh ri beul na h-oidhche

Sa ghàrradh thall ann am Barabhaig

Do chailleach bun na h-ursainn

Is i a’ cromadh air a glùin

Is ri còmhradh beag rithe fhèin

Os ìseal anns a’ Ghàidhlig

Fad an t-siubhail is lusan an Aisig

A bha cho buidhe ris a’ chonasg

Air seargadh is crìonadh

Is i gan ceangal ri chèile

Mu choinneamh na bliadhna romhainn.

With greengrey lockdown easing and going away at last as is the snow on the creamcropsummit of Ben Screel over on the mainland, I feltnoticed over there as I went past as night closed in in the peat-stackdykegarden over in Baravaig the cailleach next door droopbending on her generationknee and muttering to herself in Gaelic all the deathseekjourneytime and the daffodils that were so golden fadewithered and shrinkdecayed and herself binding them together in preparation for the year ahead of us.

‘S a h-uile càil cho rèidh

Ri linn glasadh an t-sluaigh

‘S an Cèitean Earraich a’ fàs

Gun fhiosta na Chèitean Samhraidh,

Gu h-ìseal ris an tiùrr

Eadar Àrd Snaosaig is Òb Chamas Chros

Eadar muir agus tìr,

Seall, tonn a’ chladaich

Agus canach an t-slèibhe

‘S iad a’ dol an lùib a chèile.

With every lifestrengthdesirething so plainorderedpeacefulquiet in the greygreen lockdawn and summerspringMay wastegrowing suddenly without knowing wastegrowing into springsummerMay, down at the  suddenly without knowing, down at the high-water-mark flotsam-and-jetsam-pile eitherbothbetween the hill at Àrd Snaosaig and Camuscross Bay, showsee, the shore-waveseapink and dolphinbog-cotton bowbeambendtachethongmazemeandering amongst each other.

A’ dìreadh is a’ teàrnadh

A’ bhealaich is an ruighe gu h-ìseal

Is a h-uile càil eagalach rèidh

Ri linn glasadh an t-sluaigh,

Sgiath-bheinn Chrosabhaig air an dàrna taobh

‘S an taobh eile Sgiath-bheinn Thòcabhaig,

Nochd a-mach às an adhar os mo chionn

Itealag ag itealaich gu h-àrd

Air mheidh mar iolair – glig glig! -

Eadar foluaimean is falbhan,

A’ sgiorradaich is a’ stad

Is a’ sireadh fad ùine fhada

Gun fhead gun fhuaim ‘s air a’ cheann thall

A’ togail rithe gun fhiosta.

Climbing and after-birthrescuedescending the glenmountaingatepassage and the flat elongated shieling area at the base of the hill below and every lifestrengthdesirething terribly plainorderedpeacefulquiet, Sgiath-bheinn Crosavaig on one side and on the other side Sgiath-bheinn Tokavaig, suddenly out of the air above me some sort of skywriter nakedviewappeared soaring highloud, balanced like an eagle hovering and glidecircling and stopping and searching for a long time without a rushsound and at the far end eventually taking off suddenly without knowing.

Ann an glasadh an t-sluaigh

‘S an Cèitean Earraich a’ fàs na Chèitean Samhraidh,

Chunnaic mi gu h-ìseal

Bhuam air làr a’ Ghasgain

An crodh Gàidhealach nan crò

Nam prasgan cruinn còmhla

Gun ghuth gun char asta

Fail iù fail eò hi ù ho rò

‘S a’ siubhal seachad na dheann

Carbad dubh ‘s e a’ falbh à sealladh

Mar gum b’ e ‘n triall

A’ dol air ais air an àirigh.

In greengrey lockdown with summerspringMay wastegrowing into springsummerMay, I saw down over there on the centreground of the Gasgan a herd of Highland cattle in their cloudchildrencirclepen gathered round together without a bardtauntvoicesound or a stir out of them fail iù fail eò hi ù ho rò

and deathseektravelling past at speed a black biervehicle going out of sight as if in deathprocession going back to the summer shieling. 

Tha gach rud cho rèidh

Ri linn glasadh an t-sluaigh –

Na caoraich a’ nochdadh am bàrr

Eadar a’ Chlachaig is an Lianag air an socair

Is a’ suathadh ri mo bhuinn gu sèimh,

Caorag-lèana ‘s tonn a’ chladaich.

Everything is so plainorderedpeacefulquiet in greygreen lockdown – the sheep nakedappearing in creamcroptopview eitherbothbetween the rocky shore and the level green patch at their ease and gently hand-ringingafflictionstir-rubbing against my soles, the ragged-robin and sea-pink.

Thàinig samhla gam ionnsaigh

De na  bodaich anns a’ ghlasadh nan gillean

Aon deich air fhichead bliadhn’ air ais

Is iad a’ cur uachdar às ùr

Air an rathad-mhòr

Eadar Cille Mhoire ‘s a’ Chille Bheag,

Nan seasamh cruinn mar air tòrradh

Timcheall air toll is a’ coimhead

A-steach ann gun char gun ghuth

‘S a’ cnacaireachd ann an Gàidhlig

Fad an t-siubhail mu seach

Is na carbadan uile nan stad

Agus an uair sin balbhadh

Is an uair sin a’ càrnadh suas

Làn shluasaidean de bhìth na bhroinn,

Ga sgaoileadh is ga lìonadh is ga rèiteachadh.

A ghostimage struck me of the old mutchkinsealcodghostmen as gillieboys all of 30 years ago resurfacing the main road eitherbothbetween Kilmore and Kilbeg, standing around like in a funeral-procession around a hole and looking into it without a stir or a bardtauntvoiceword and cracking away in Gaelic all the deathjourneyseekingtime turns about and all the biervehicles stopped and that hourtime then a muterest and that hourtime then cairnheaping up shovelfuls of tar and stuff bellyin it, spreadscattering it and dead-woodfilling it and reconciliationlevelling it.

Chan ionann beatha na ceapairean

A ghabh mi san eadradh

Nam shuidh’ air an tulaich leam fhìn

Air an Ruighe Bhuidhe

Ri linn glasadh an t-sluaigh

Hao ri iù ri bhò èile

‘S an fheadhainn a ghabh sibh fhèin

Le ur cuid luinneagan

A’ triall air là na h-imrich

Gu bothag na h-àirigh dhuibh.

The pieces I had at milking-time sitting on the tombhillock on my own at Ruighe Buidhe in the greygreen lockdawn are not the same foodlife hao ri iù ri bhò eile that you had with your lullabyworking-songs in death-herdprocession on flitting day to the shieling speak-easybothy.

Cha tàinig a’ Waverley riamh am-bliadhna

Ri linn glasadh an t-sluaigh,

Seadh, an soitheach-smùide mu dheireadh

A bhios a’ seòladh nan cuan fhathast

A nochdadh air an Linne Shlèitich is Loch Nibheis

Ach is cuimhne leam bliadhnaichean a b’ fhaid’ air ais

Nuair a bha sinn uile cruinn còmhla

San aon soitheach air na làithean-saora

Sìos Linne Chluaidh gu Loch Long is an Tairbeart an Iar

Agus turas air Maid of the Loch ud an uair sin

Eadar am Bealach agus ceann an locha

‘S faram nan loinidean a’ dol suas is a-nuas

Is na rothan a’ dol mun cuairt gun stad

Is mar a thuirt am bodach cumail ris an làimh dheis

A’ dìreadh is a’ teàrnadh ris na ceumannan

Agus meudachd mhòr nan crann-teine

‘S boladh làidir na h-ola ‘s na crèise

‘S na breacagan ‘s an t-ìm air a’ bhòrd-ìochdair

Is a’ coimhead a-mach air na tuill-phuirt

Air an t-saoghal fo thuinn umainn a’ dol seachad.

The Waverley never came this year in the greengrey lockdawn, aye, the last ocean-going steamer that used to nakedappear in the Sound of Sleat and Loch Nevis but I remember years further back when we were all together in the same boat in the holidays down the Firth of Clyde to Loch Long and a journeytime on that Maid of the Loch that hourtime then eitherbothbetween Balloch and the head of the loch and the rhythmclamour of the pistons going up and down and the wheels going round and round all the time and how the old man said keep right ascending and after-birthdescending the steps and the huge funnels and the strong stench of the oil and grease and the buttered bannocksconepancakes on the table down below and keepinglooking out the portholes at the lifeworld under the waves about us going past.

Air turas ann an glasadh an t-sluaigh,

Feasgar Latha Fhèill Eathain, am fear as fhaide den bhliadhna

‘S an t-Ògmhios a’ tighinn gu ceann,

Air bruach Loch nan Dubhraichean

Cuide ris an tè a th’ ann,

Chunnaic sinn de dh’òigheagan –

Cruinneagan-uaine ‘s cruinneagan-dearga

‘S cruinneagan-grinne ‘s cruinneagan-latha

‘S cruinneagan-caochlaideach – a’ srucadh air an uachdar

Mar ghreann ‘s a’ suathdh rinn cha mhòr

Agus an uair sin a’ falbh gun fhiosta

‘S iad cho mìn fìnealta

‘S nach mair ach, tha i fhìn ag ràdh,

Dìreach fad aon latha.

On a oncetimejourney in greygreen lockdown in the evening of Midsummer, the longest day of the year and June coming to an end, on the borderbank of Loch nan Dubhraichean with herself we saw all those damselflies – emerald damselflies and large red damselflies and blue-tailed damselflies and azure damselflies and variable bluet damselflies – shuffleskimming on the surface like

gloomhair-ripples and hand-ringingafflictionstir-rubbing against us almost and that hourtime then going off suddenly without knowing, so downydainty and delicatelegant and that live, herself says, for straightup one day only.

Nam thàmh uair eile sa mhadainn

Ri linn glasadh an t-sluaigh,

Shìn mi air glanadh is air sgioblachadh,

A’ suathadh is a’ sguabadh an teallaich

Is a’ càradh an anairt a-staigh

Mar chartadh a’ Chèitein,

Agus ag obair air amar-ionnlaid mo mhic,

Thàinig e air ais dham ionnsaigh

Gan deach a chur a-steach le mo charaid,

An Caoidheach nach maireann, mo chreach,

An duine gasta treun ud

A thathaich oirnn cho tric,

Agus nuair a bhog mi mo làmhan

Sìos am broinn an amair,

Dh’fhairich mi de chlisgeadh fuar

Mar gum biodh e na thobar uisge-choisrigte

‘S mi a’ gearradh seun na croise

Air mo bhathais is gam bheannachadh fhèin.

Dwellresting and idle another hourtime again in the morning in greygreen lockdown, I liestarted purecleaning and afterbirth-casttidying, hand-wringingwiping and sweeping the hearth and doing the shroudlinenclothes in at home as in spring-cleaning and working on my son’s wash-hand basin it struck me again that it was put there by my friend who’s dead, that hardy strong manperson who often hauntvisited us and when I softdipped my hands down inbellyside the basin, I felt a cold shock suddenly as if it was a holy water stoup and me making the denialprotectioncharmsign of the cross on my forehead and greetblessing myself.

Agus gun durra-bhig air siubhal a’ bhaile

Ri linn glasadh an t-sluaigh,

Dh’fhairich mi cailleach bun dorais thall ud

A’ seinn duan rithe fhèin

Fail ill èileadh ho gù hoireann

Ann an cainnt na màthar bhò èile

De nach tuig hò rò duine facal

An-diugh chall èileadh ò hi chall

Is cha mhotha tha mi ‘g ràdh

Gun tuig a’ chailleach a bharrachd.

With not a deathseekwalking sound in the homefarmclanvillage in the greygreen lockdawn I hearfelt the cailleach next door singing and old song to herself fail ill èileadh ho gù hoireann in the mother tongue bhò èile of which a manperson understands hò rò not a word today chall èileadh ò hi chall and nor am I saying the cailleach understands any more either.

Ag èirigh ‘s a’ dol sìos

A’ chiad char Didòmhnaich

Ann an glasadh an t-sluaigh

‘S a’ spìonadh nan luibhean air cùl an taighe

‘S air a’ chasan far an d’rinn i fhìn suidhe

Chan eil cianail fada bhuaithe,

Dh’fhairich mi – ceach! - a chlisgeadh

Na mo chluais a’ chiad bhìdeadh

Am-bliadhna de na cuileagan-mìne

‘S an Cèitean, mu dheireadh thall, oirnn

Agus an uair sin bhuam fad’ às

Gug-gùg! Gug-gùg! am badeigin.

Getting up and going down the first turnmovement on Sunday in greengrey lockdown and drizzletearing the weeds at the back of the house and on the footpath where herself sat not all that long ago, I heardfelt suddenly in my ear the first chirpbite this year of the wee midges and springsummerMay, at long last, upon us and that hourtime then far off cuckoo! cuckoo! in some tuftbushplace.

Agus dìobardan ‘s gun dùrd ann

Ri linn glasadh an t-sluaigh,

Seall cailleach bun na h-ursainn

A’ cromadh a chur uisg’ air na sìtheanan

Gu mall agus le loinn

Agus an uair sin ag èirigh,

Na ficheadan bogha-froise

Cho mìn ri croisean-Moire.

In the whirligigwill-o’-the-wispheat-haze with not an atomsylabblehum in greygreen lockdown, showsee the cailleach next door middle-fingerdroopstopping to teardropwater the fairy-knollflowers lateslowly and gardengladegracefully and that hourtime then rising up scores of rainbows as smoothdownyfine as gossamer.

Eadar Cèitean Earraich is Cèitean Samhraidh

Ri crannadh is ri sgrìob liath,

Chunnaic mi bho chùl an taighe

Ris a’ ghlasadh anns a’ ghàrradh

Aig coimhearsnaich bun na h-ursainn

Lusan an Aisig mu dheireadh

Agus an raineach-uaine

‘S de chuileagan-mìne

Nach robh ann ach gann

Aon seachdain air ais

A’ falbh is a’ fàs

An lùib a chèile le chèile.

Eitherbothbetween Maysummerspring and Mayspringsummer windwithering and bluegreycold I saw from the back of the house in the greygreen lockdawn in next door’s peat-stackdykegarden the last daffodils and the green bracken and all those midgies that were hardly there one week ago going and wastegrowing bowbeambendtachethongmazemeandering beambowbendamong each other bothtogether.

Air m’ èirigh dhomh ‘s a’ gluasad

Sìos gu cùl an taighe ri glasadh an latha

‘S gun a bhith gu lèir na mo dhùisg

Ach rud beag na mo chadal,

Nuair a sheas mi gu leigeil mo mhùin,

Mhothaich mi fodham sa bhruaich

Mu mo chasan bròg na làrach

Is an comann-searraich a’ fosgladh

Is ghabh mi orm gun robh sinn air ais

O chionn aon fhichead bliadhna

Mar theaghlach ann am Paris

Air ar dùsgadh leis na big

Is a’ chàraid air an taobh thall,

Bodach is cailleach, an-àird

Mu-thràth le grian an àigh

‘S a’ toirt geòbadh air na còmhlachan.

Having got up and moving down to the back of the house in the greygreen lockdawn not clearpainfully awake but half asleep, when I went for a pee I noticed below me in the bank about my feet the bluebells and celandines opening and I let on we were back some severaltwenty years ago as a family in Paris wakened by the wee ones and the pair on the far side, an old codger and wifie, up and about earlyprayermealtime already in the glorious sunshine and opening the shutters out wide. 

Làithean an earraich agus glasadh an t-sluaigh

‘S a’ chlann bheag’ air falbh,

Bidh mi ‘g èirigh ‘s a’ dol dhan ghàrradh

A ghabhail na grèine ‘s a’ sealltainn

Bhuam a-mach air na beàrnain-bhrìde

‘S ged nach biodh ann ach plathadh fhèin

Iad a’ fosgladh cho luath

‘S a’ dol am meud fad na tìde.

Spring days and greengrey lockdawn and the wee familychildren gone, I get up and go to the peat-stackdykegarden to catch the sun and showlook from me out there at the dandelions as they even if only for a puff-flashglanceinstant sheet-lightningopen and get bigger all the weathertime. 

Ged a bhiodh lus an Aisig

A’ sìneadh air dol air ais,

Tha glasadh an t-sluaigh ri sgaoileadh

Mu dheireadh thall is a’ chuthag

Nach eilear a’ faicinn ach a’ faireachdainn

Gug gùg! am badeigin air tighinn

Didòmhnaich agus a’ Bhealltainn oirnn

Is gug gùg! na làithean geala

‘S de bhuidhe buidhe mun cuairt –

Na dìtheanan-buidhe ‘s na blàthan-buidhe,

Na sòbhragan anns a’ bhruaich

Is de chonasg air oir a’ bhealaich

Is bròg na làrach is na neòineanan

Gug gùg! is am beàrnan-brìde

Ga shèideadh air feadh an àite

Gug gùg! is buidheag an t-samhraidh

‘S dealan nam bàrr buidhe

‘S meacan-buidhe ‘n t-slèibhe

‘S an eala-bhuidhe sa mhadainn gu h-òg

‘S breacan-buidhe nan allt

Is blàthan an t-seilich gug gùg!

Nan lùib gug gùg! fad na tìde

‘S nach buidhe dhuinn a Dhia

‘S nach math gug gùg! ma mhaireas.

Even though the daffodils are stretchstarting to go back, the greygreen lockdawn is going at last and the gowk that isn’t seen but feltheard cuckoo! in some tuftbushplace has come on the Lord’s Day with Mayday upon us and cuckoo! the bright days and all that yellowthanks-giving thanks-givingyellow all around – the yellow knollflowers and yellow warmblossomflowers, the primroses on the lumpclumpbrinkbank and all the whins by the roadside and the celandine and the daisies cuckoo! and the dandelions cuckoo! being swellblown all over the place cuckoo! and the buttercups and orange tips and Irish spurge and perforated St. John’s wort and common bird’s-foot trefoil in the earlyyoung morning and the western yellow wagtails and catkins cuckoo! beambowbendamong them cuckoo! all the weathertime and yellowthanksgiving to the Lord and isn’t it good cuckoo! as long as it lasts.

Aig an taigh, seall, a cheart cho grinn

Ri linn glasadh an t-sluaigh -

Na dìtheanan-buidhe le grèin

A’ faoisgneadh is a’ fosgladh

Is an fheadhainn san sgàil fon challaid

Is iad fhathast air druideadh

Nan aon chadalain-tràghad

A’ dèanamh cadal gu eadradh.

At househome, showlook, just as neatnice in the greygreen lockdawn - the yellow knollflowers, the daisies, buttercups and marsh marigold in the sun bursting out and opening and the ones in the ghostshade under the funeral-crylurking-placehedge still approachclosed, sleepy heads having a long lie.

Agus an cladh na shìneadh

A-mach romham ‘s air a dhùnadh

Ri linn glasadh an t-sluaigh,

Chì mi bhuam bho thaobh na slighe

Ged nach lèir dhomh na briathran ann

Thall ud na clachan-cinn

Far an rachadh a chille

Nan linn iomadh nighean is gille

Nam bodaich is nan cailleachan

‘S iad cho coltach ris an dà sgadan

Agus air an cumail air leth

Fad aon dà shlat bho chàch-a-chèile.

With the spawningditchcemetery before me closed in greygreen lockdawn, I see from the wayside though I can’t make out the words there at all over there the endhead testiclegrave-yardstones where many a lass and lad went to church and is now an old munchkinghostman and ladnunhag all the same kept two cockyards apart from each other.

Agus an glasadh a’ falbh,

Air mo mhosgladh agus nam shuidhe,

Mothaichidh mi ‘n Cèitean

Agus lusan an Aisig bho shean

Is a-nis a-rithist às ùr

Agus na dìtheanan gu lèir

A’ druideadh is a’ fosgladh

Mu seach an dà chuid le chèile.

With greygreen lockdown going, awoken and up and about, I’m aware of springsummerMay and the old daffodils and then the new and clearpainall the twirlknolltaresmari-golddaisyflowers mavisapproachclosing and sheet-lightningopening times about both together.

Agus an glasadh a th’ air a bhith ann

Bho dh’fhàs mi nam bhodach an trì fichead

Cha mhòr ann fhathast, air dhomh mosgladh

Is a’ sealltainn a-mach air an uinneig

A’ sealltainn a-mach air a’ ghàrradh

Is e na chì mi bhuam

Ach na mìrean mu dheireadh den t-sneachda

Bho shean air tìr-mòr thall ud

Agus fodham lusan an Aisig

A bha dìreach nan togail-inntinn

Air cho fada gun tighinn

Fo bhlàth sna bliadhnaichean a dh’aom

Gun fhosgladh agus gun chinntinn

Idir ann am-bliadhna.

With the greengrey lockdown which has been here since I wastebcame an old mutchkinsealcodghostman of 60 all but here still, having woken and showlooking out the window showlooking onto the peat-stackdykegarden I see over there the last of the old snow on the mainland and below me daffodils which would straightup raise your spirits however longlate coming into warmflower in other years not sheet-lightningopening and not growing at all there this year.

Och, a ghaoil, coimhid

Anns a’ ghàrradh an dìthean ud

Nach aithne dhomh dè bheir thu air

A chinn fo bhlàth bàn

Eadar a’ Chàisg is a’ Bhealltainn

Gus an tàinig oirnn gun fhiosta

Rot bhon cheann a tuath

Dìreach fad aon trì latha

Le sneachda beag breith nan uan

Is glasadh na cuthaige na char

Is gun do dh’fhàs am blàth cho buidhe,

Air a chaochladh, ris an ìm,

Ri lus an Aisig, ris a’ ghrèin,

Am fianais ar sùl a’ seargadh

Is a’ crìonadh is a’ dol bhuaithe

‘S bàs cho cinnteach ri tìm.

Och, love, look in the peat-stackdykegarden at that flower I don’t know what you call which happengrew in pale-emptyfallow-white warmbloom eitherbothbetween Easter and Mayday until suddenly a dirtgale from the countryfarmfolknorthe headend came upon us unawares juststraight-up for three days with the lambing and the cuckoo snow and the warmflower wastegrew yellow, on the deathchangecontrary, as butter, as the daffodils, as the sun, in the sun, in the witnesspresence of our hope-eyes withering and shrinking and fading away to death as sure as time.

Agus an glasadh a’ falbh mean air mhean

Agus an tè a th’ ann air fàlan thall ud

A’ leigeil a cuid uighean le leathad

Le càch nan clachan air udalan

Didòmhnaich a’ Ghuileagain,

Rinn sinn fhìn suidhe sa ghàrradh.

Och, a mh’ eudail ‘s a rùin,

A dh’ùine gun a bhith fada,

‘S ann a nochdas na cuileagan-beaga

Seadh, na cuileagan-mìne ‘s bheir iad suathadh

Gun fhois mar bho shean

Air d’aghaidh ‘s air feadh do chraicinn.

With the greengrey lockdown going little by little and herself over there rolling her eggs downhill with the others like rolling stones on Easter Sunday, we sat down in the peat-stackdykegarden. Och, my dear, in a little while the wee midgies will nakedappear and they’ll hand-ringingafflictionstir-rub and enticebite your face and all over your skin as of old without letting up.

Eadar mo chadal ‘s mo dhùisg

Eadar beul na h-oidhche ‘s beul an là

‘S an Cèitean earraich a’ falbh

Na Chèitean samhraidh mu dheireadh

No leis na th’ ann de rotach

Nach do dh’fhalbh an Cèitean geamhraidh,

Nuair a sheasas mi ris an uinneig,

Air a shon is nach fhaighinn

Ach plathadh dheth car ùine,

Seall, thall, fhathast, ge-tà - 

Sneachda beag breith nan uan

Agus glasadh na cuthaige.

Eitherbothbetween sleeping and waking eitherbothbetween nightfall and sunrise and spring-time-May becoming the last summer-time-May at last or withbecause of the northerly thickspeedgale that winter hasn’t gone, when I stand at the window, for all that I only get a puff-flashgimpseinstant of it, showsee, still, but, the lambing snow and the cuckoo’s greygreen lockdawn slight fall of snow.

Leugh mi ris a’ ghlasadh an-diugh

Gun do shiubhail thu mu dheireadh

Aig aois a’ gheallaidh gu leth

‘S ghabh mi cuairt mun chùl-chinn

Is chunnaic mi bhuam taigh-solais Eilean Iarmain

A’ soillseachadh mar chrann-tara,

A’ nochdadh is a’ falbh is thall ud

Gu h-àrd, Còig Peathraichean Chinn Tàile

Mar thu fhèin cuide ri càch,

Snyder is Kerouac is Ginsberg is O’Hara

‘S gu deas aig Malaig sìos an Linne,

Solais a’ bhaile-mhòir a’ deàlradh

Is a’ dol às ann am priobadh nan sùl

Agus thuirt mi rium fhìn: seadh,

‘S e ‘n fhìrinn ghlan a bh’ agad,

‘S e àit’ àlainn a tha san t-saoghal.

I read in the greengrey lockdawn that you deeathseekwent at last at a great age and I went around by the head-back-common grazing and saw over there the lighthouse at Isle Ornsay lit up like a fiery cross, nakedviewappearing and disappearing and over there up high, the Five Sisters of Kintail like yourself with the others, Snyder and Kerouac and Ginsberg and O’Hara and neatnearsouth at Mallaig down the Sound the lights like city lights splendoursparkling and glistenglittering and gleambeaming and going out in the twinkling of an eye and I said to myself, aye, you spoke the puregreat truth, the lifeworld is beautiful.

Sa ghlasadh tha na soithichean air chruaidh

‘S a’ bhratach gu h-ìseal

Mar urram do dh’Aonghas Dhòmhnaill,

Seadh, Aonghas Dhòmhnaill nach maireann

Agus eadar an tràigh ‘s an tiùrr

A’ traoghadh, bodachan thall ud

A’ sgrìobadh nam bàirneach

Far slige na tè leis fhèin

Air a beul-sìos air baile ‘s air a chùl

Na beanntan thall air tìr-mòr

A’ nochdadh a-steach is a-mach às na neòil

Is iad ag èirigh dhan t-sìorraidheachd.

In the greengrey lockdawn the boats are at hardanchor and the flag lowered in honour of Angus, aye, the late Angus, and eitherbothbetween the sandystrandlow-watermark and the flotsam-and-jetsamhigh-watermark sinkebbing, a little old ghostmunchkinman is scraping the barnacles off the shellhull of his own face down and hometownfarmbeached and behind him the high  mountains over on the mainland are nakedviewappearing in and out of the dazeclouds rising to eternity.

Agus mi nam bhodach

Air mo dhùsgadh uair eile gu moch

Agus air m’ èirigh dhomh

Ris a’ ghlasadh a’ chiad char,

Chì mi bhuam thall ud

Na ruith gu luath seachad air an tràigh

Far an siùbhlainn le Tormod is Coinneach

Am fear òg sin a’ diuchdadh

A-rithist a-mach às an dubhar

Agus cù ri thaobh

‘S iad beag is beag a’ dol à sealladh

Agus abair thusa farmad.

As an old mutchkinsealcodghostman woken another weatherhourtime early and getting up in the greygreenlockdawn the first turnthing, I see over there running soonfast past the low-tideshore where I used to deathseekwalk with Norrie and Kenny that young manone appearing again out of the gloom and a dog beside him as little by little they go out of view and I’m full of envy.

A’ chiad rud agus an glasadh

A bh’ ann a’ sgaoileadh

Mura bheil air falbh dìreach,

‘S ann a chaidh mo dhùsgadh

Nuair a dh’fhairich mi nam shìneadh

Bhuam an taobh eile den taigh

Chan e mo nigheanag a’ carachadh

Is a’ sporghail sa phreas-aodaich

Ach na mìrean mu dheireadh

Den t-sneachda bhalbh

A thàinig oirnn a chianaibh

A’ gluasad is a’ teàrnadh

Na chnap a-nuas bhon mhullach.

The first thing and greengrey lockdawn loosening if not gone entirely, I was woken up when I feltheard lying down over there from me the other side of the house not herself moving and sprauchling in the wardrobe but the last of the silent snow that came upon us a while ago moving and after-birthfalling with a thud from the rooftop.

Seo sinn uair eile sa Bhliadhn’ Ùir

Ann an glasadh an t-sluaigh

‘S an dèidh gu bheil an sneachda mòr

Air leaghadh ach gann agus glanadh

Air falbh ‘s gun air fhàgail a-nis

Ach na bloighean thall ‘s a-bhos,

Tha sinn fhathast a’ feitheamh

Gun fhios nach nochd

Shìos bhuainn ri ceann an rathaid

Mu dheireadh thall an gille-connaidh.

Here we are another weatherhourtime again in the New Year in the greygreen lockdawn and for all that the snow has almost melted and gone away and all that’s left now is tiny patches here and there, we’re still watchwaiting for the fuelman to nakedviewappear down from us at the last road-end over there at long last. 

 An-dè san oidhche

‘S an-diugh sa mhadainn còmhla

Nuair mu dheireadh thall a bhuail e

Meadhan-oidhche ‘s oidhche Challainn

A’ dol na Latha na Bliadhn’ Ùire

‘S cuideachd a’ chiad latha

Don eilean bheag againn fhìn

Gun a bhith na roinn

Den tìr-mhòr tuilleadh,

Bha dùil agam gun do mhothaich mi bhuam

Coimhearsnaich bun na h-ursainn

A’ dol a-mach anns an dùbhradh

Agus an uair sin a’ tilleadh

Air ais ris a’ ghlasadh

Aig dealachadh nan tràth

‘S iad air a’ chiad cheum

A-null gu taigh falamh

Gun solas is gun teine.

Yesterday at night and today in the morning bothtogether when at long last it struck midnight and Hogmanay became Ne’erday and also the first day for the wee island of ours not to be a divideregion of the mainlandcontinent anymore, I thought I noticed over there the next-door neighbours going out in the spectredark in the distance and that weatherhourtime then returning back in the twilight and greygreen lockdawn out first-footing over to an empty house without a light or a fire.

An-diugh Là na Bliadhn’ Ùire

‘S là na h-aoise dhomh le chèile

‘S an tulgadh fhathast mu sgaoil

Agus glasadh an t-sluaigh ga rèir

Is an aimsir eadar Nollaig Mhòr is Nollaig Bheag

Air a bhith air a dubhadh a-mach againn

Agus a’ chlann gu lèir air falbh

Agus an taigh fuar falamh fhèin,

Chuir mi seachad an t-àm a’ siubhal

San Eilean do nach buin mi bho dhùthchas

Is a’ gabhail beachd thairis air an aiseag

A-null bhuam gu tìr-mòr

Anns an t-sneachda bhalbh

A thàinig a chianaibh oirnn gun fhios

Agus a th’ air a bhith a’ cur

‘S a’ laighe bhon uair sin gun sgur.

Today on New Year’s Day and my birthday and the rockpamdemic still here and the greygreen lockdown accordingly and the temps eitherbothbetween Christmas Day and Ne’erday having been blackcancelled by us and all the familychildren away and the cold empty house cold and empty indeed,  I spent the time deathseekwalking in the Island to which I do not belong and contemplatelooking across the resurrectiondeliverancenarrows to the continentmainland over there in the silent snow that came upon us unawares a while ago and has been falling and lying unceasingly ever since

Agus aimsir na Nollaig’ oirnn mu dheireadh,

Chaidh mo dhùsgadh anns a’ ghlasadh

Bhon gun robh i mi ‘n dùil

Gun do dh’fhairich mi bhuam

Mo nigheanag agus ceum

A coise ‘s i ‘n-àirde

‘S a’ carachadh anns an t-seòmar aice

Seach na clàran air an làr a’ dìosgail.

With Christmas temps upon us, I was woken in the greengrey lockdawn as I hopethought I could feelhear my daughter and her footsteps as she moved up and about in her room and not the barrencreaking of the floorboards.

Agus gun ach an dithis againn a-staigh

Ris a’ ghlasadh  Diluain

A’ chiad char, a’ dol a-mach

A dh’fhàgail soitheach an sgudail

Aig ceann an rathaid thall,

Chan e ‘n luimead no ‘n dorchadas

No sìde nan seachd sian as miosa,

‘S e dìreach gun do dh’fhàs

Uighean ùra nan cearc

Anns an àite sin aca cho tearc

An taca ris mar a bha

‘S an uair sin aon là gun ghin.

With only the two of us in at home in t he greeygreen lockdawn on Monday first light, going out to leave the rubbish bins at the road-end over there, it’s not the bareness or the dark or the attrocious weather that’s the worse thing, but that the hens’ fresh eggs have wastebecome so scarce in their place unlike not long ago and that weatherhourtime then one day, there’s none at all.

Air mo mhosgladh anns a’ ghlasadh

Agus gun de dh’fhuaim ann,

Shaoileam gun do dh’fhairich mi bhuam thall

Chan e dìreach uf uf nan con,

Mò mò a’ chruidh ‘s mè mè nan caorach,

Moig oigean is gnost gnost nam muc,

Hi homh homh nan asal

Agus meig meig nan gobhar

Ach na bodaich a bh’ ann a’ glaodhach

Is ag èigheachd amach iosgaidh!

Tirr h-eodha! ciridh! siug! suc suc!

Tuadhi! chaoide chaoide! dur dur!

Pruidh-seo! prill-è! poichean! is mar sin

Air na beathaichean sa chainnt aca fhèin.  

Roused up in the greygreen lockdawn without a sound, I thought I feltheard over there not just the dogs’ woofing, the cattle’s mooing and the sheeps’ babaing, the pigs’ oinking , the donkeys’ braying and the goats’ bleating but the old sealcodmutchkinghost men death-tingle crying out iosgaidh! tirr h-eodha! ciridh! siug! suc suc! tuadhi! chaoide chaoide! dur dur! pruidh-seo! prill-è! poichean! and so on at the beasts in their own langue et parole.

Och, seall, dìreach bodach

No dithis thall gun ghuth

Gun ghabadh agus pìobaire

Fon èideadh Ghàidhealach

Ri tuireadh ho ro eile

Ho bà ho bà bà è bà e

Mun chuimhneachan-chogaidh

Nan seasamh air leth

Gun charachadh Là na Sìthe

Ri linn glasadh an t-sluaigh.

Och, showlook, just one or two old mutchkinsealcodghostmen over there without a bardtauntword and a piper in the Gaelic garb with a lament round the war memorial, all standing apart without moving on Remembrance Day forduring greygreen lockdown.

Air mo chumail a-staigh

Ri linn glasadh an t-sluaigh

Agus an tè a th’ ann air tilleadh

Ris a’ bhaile-mhòr mu dheireadh,

Chuir mi seachad fad na maidine

Shìos air mo ghlùin

A’ sporghail fon leabaidh

Far am biodh e fhèin

Cuideachd na linn

‘S a’ dol an lùib nan doileagan ‘s nan àilleagan

‘S nan lèintean is nam bròg

Nach eil a’ teachd tuilleadh

Is gan cur an dara taobh sa chiste

‘S gan caitheamh bhuam dhan t-sitig.

Kept inside at home forduring lockdown and herself gone back to the bright lights at last, I spent all morning down on my generationknees rattlerummaging under the bed where himself was in his generationtime ancestorcompanyalso and going through the dollies and darlingjeweltoys and the shroudshirts and stuff and shoes that don’t comefit any more and putting them to one side in the treasurekist and consumptionwastethrowing them wantingaway from me for the skip.

Agus am foghar a’ tighinn gu crìch

Agus am mìos dubh

‘S an geamhradh air lom,

Abair gun deach clisgeadh a chur orm

Nuair a chaidh mo mhosgladh

Ri glasadh an latha

‘S an tè a th’ ann ri mo thaobh

‘S gu h-àrd air cho fad’ às,

An ìre mu dheireadh, tha fios,

De bhùrach na dàra.

With autumn nearly over and the dark months of winter barelooming, I got such a start when I was woken in the greygreen lockdawn with herself beside me and out loud on high for all that it’s far off, the last, surely, of the rutting bourachbellowing.

‘S gun ach an dithis againn a-staigh

‘S am feasgar a’ dol na chiaradh

Oidhche Shamhna ri glasadh an t-sluaigh

‘S am mìos dubh oirnn gu luath

‘S casg air na samhnagan ‘s na samhnairean

‘S gun ùbhlan air a’ bhòrd no fuarag,

Abair gun d’fhuair sinn clisgeadh

Agus lasadh thall shìos bhuainn 

Gun a bhith na ghathan-gainnisg

A’ dlùthachadh is an uair sin clann

Gun a bhith a’ nochdadh nam bòcain

Air an stairsnich nan aodannan-coimheach.

With only the two of us in at home and the evening getting darker at Halloween in greygreen lockdown and the darkest month upon us ashfast and the bonfires and guisers prohibited and no apples or stuff on the table, we got quite a start with a flamelight over there which was not a Halloween torch getting warpnearer and then clanchildren not nakedviewappearing as ghosts on the doorstep in their alien facemasks.

Sa ghlasadh, a’ ghealach na corran

A’ briseadh is a’ crìonadh mean air mhean

Os cionn nan achaidhean sna Torran.

In the greengrey lockdawn, the crescent moon waning little by little above the fields in Torrin.

Ann an Caol Acain air chuairt

Feasgar ìseal Didòmhnaich

Agus glasadh an t-sluaigh ann fhathast

Gun lasachadh is an Dùbhlachd air lom,

‘S e na dh’fhidir mi romham

An smùidreach ag èirigh dhan adhar

Agus bodach na sheasamh leis fhèin

Agus ri chois ablach coin

A’ sealltainn a-mach dìreach

Air na h-eathraichean air chruaidh

Sa chala gun charachadh idir,

Cho ciùin, cho bog balbh.

In Kyleakin on a roundboundrepetitiontrip in the low afternoon on Sunday with the greengrey lockdown still not easing and the Decemberdoldrums barelooming, what I saw before me was the drizzlecolumn of smoke rising up to the sky and an old mutchkinsealcodghostman standing on his own and legbeside him an old dog just showlooking out straight ahead at the wee boats at hardanchor in the last-placeharbour without any movement, so softdumbcalm.

An dèidh dhomh dol seachad

Air Drochaid an Eilein

Thar a’ chaolais gu tìr-mòr thall

Sa ghlasadh a’ chiad turas

Bho thàinig aois a’ bhodaich orm,

‘S ann a fhuair mi stad

Agus chaidh mo thoirt air ais

Nuair a dh’fhairich mi bhuam faram

Nan roth ‘s iad a’ tionndadh

Mun cuairt aig a’ charbad-iarainn

A’ dlùthachadh gu mall

Ris a’ cheann-uidhe mu dheireadh.

After I’d crossed over the bridge at the island over the ferryfirthnarrows to the mainland over there in the greengrey lockdawn the first journeytime since I became an old mutchkinsealcodghostman, I got a stopstart and was taken aback when I feltheard over there the rhythmnoise of the wheels turning and returning round of a train lateslowly warpnearing the final destination at last.

Dh’èirich mi ris a’ ghlasadh

Agus i fhìn fhathast na laighe

‘S sheas mi dreiseag leam

A’ sealltainn a-mach air a’ ghàrradh

Agus am feur gun a bhith a’ fàs ann

Ach air èiginn èiginn

Agus an geamhradh air lom

Agus thuirt mi rium fhìn: seadh,

Aon ghearradh beag bìodach eile

‘S an uair sin bidh sinn ullamh.

I got up in the greygreen lockdawn with herself still lying there and stood for a while showlooking out on the peat-stackdykegarden and the grass hardly wastegrowing at all and winter bareupon us and I said to myself: aye, one last wee cut and that houtime then that’ll be us finished.

Agus an Dàmhair air tighinn

Agus an t-sìd’ a’ mùthadh cho luath

‘S an uair a’ dol air ais

An deireadh-seachdain romhainn,

Seo sinn air ais a-rithist

Nar n-àbhaist nach eil na h-àbhaist

Agus an glasadh a’ fàs

Na chiaradh agus an ciaradh

Na ghlasadh agus beul an latha

Mar bheul na h-oidhche gun fhiosta.

With the rutting-time in October having come and the storm-abatementweather decaychanging so earlyfast and the weathertime going back this weekend, here we are back again in the norm that’s not a norm and the greygreen lockdawn wastegrowbecoming the dawndusk and the dawndusk the greengrey lockdawn and the morning twilight as the evening twilight suddenly without knowing. 

Chì mi bhuam ris a’ ghlasadh

Cailleach bun na h-ursainn agam na stad

Agus coigrich a’ siubhal seachad

Is a’ dol dhachaigh, tha fios, a-nis

Agus an Dàmhair air nochdadh

Agus thall ud, fachaich gun chomas

Itealaich bhon talamh

Agus iad air iteach

An t-samhraidh ac’ a chall

Agus, air an cùlaibh, seall,

A’ ghrian a’ faoisgneadh

A-mach às na sgòthan ‘s ag èirigh. 

I see over there in the greengrey lockdawn the wifey next door stopped and outsiders deathseektravelling past and going home no doubt now that the rutting time in October has nakedviewappeared and over by, shearwaters, flightless and grounded, having lost their summer plumage and, behind them, showsee, the sun coming out from behind the horizonclouds and rising.