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Nith, Thornhill
Betty Tindal
Lippen fu, frae a nicht o hale watter
the day the burn
is dreich an dooly.
Ah pit oot ma tongue
an taste, no mist bit tears.
Tears frae een lang since ower their greetin.
Saut tears.
Fetchin ma woes tae the waterside,
Ah let the calm souch o plashin an wamplin
wash them awa.
Whiles Ah hear echoes,
intuit past happenins.
Ah'm no the first
to seek the soons o easement that ye bring:
Ae mither, airms a toom want,
searchin fir answers, finnin nane;
Hairt-sair, a weedae-wumman,
scunnert o the hale jing-bang,
seein nae hope o betterment,
pairting yer watters,
wraps hersel up in yer forgetfuness.
Hoo gleg yer wound is mendit,
wi scarce a ripple
smoothin yer surface, happin ower her heid.
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