Crann-cuinnse
Taobh a-muigh na h-uinneag-sa
tha an canal cho trang sa bhitheas e.
Tha na lachan, na cearcan-uisge
’s na faoileagan uile cha mhòr air fàs a-nis,
na h-iteagan aca laidir is grinn gu leòr
gus teicheadh air sgiath. Tha am bliadhna
a’ tionndadh, ma-thà, agus sluagh nam fèisean
a’ lìonadh nan treànaichean ’s nan itealan
agus a’ toirt dhachaigh an cuid dannsa
agus gaireachdainn, ceòl agus dìbhearsain.
Measgachadh de leantainneachd
agus caochladh – na bhios a’ ruith agus a’ stad.
Dè dhèanamaid leis a’ chaochladh seo,
a’ chlach, an uisge, an fhoghair san adhar?
Cò aig a tha fios? Ach seall –
tha na druidean-dubha air tilleadh, a’ lìonadh
a’ chrainn-cuinnse, a’ feitheamh air biadh.
Translations of this Poem
Quince Tree
Translator: Pàdraig MacAoidh Peter Mackay
Outside the window the canal
is as busy as it ever is. The ducks,
the waterhens, the seagulls are all fledged,
their wings strong, elegant enough
to take flight. The year is turning, then,
and the crowds from the festivals
fill the trains and planes, taking home
their dancing and laughter, music and distraction.
A mix of continuity and flux, what flows
and what remains. What should we do
with this change, these cycles, this stone
and water, this autumn in the air?
Who knows? It doesn’t really matter.
Look, the starlings have returned,
filling the quince tree, waiting to be fed.
Source: Author
