The Fields o Angus

Thro nicht oor machinery roared,
spun, beat, powped and chilled
the plump rasps juiced for jam.
We wrocht or denner broke oor shift
syne gaed oot, claes fyled wi cramasie,
and intil the yaird whaur the bothy stood.
Whiles we’d stop on the wye owre
and look up at the acres o starns
in the bricht silent alaneness o that ‘oor
and say nocht, each o’s side by side,
brithert by labour, the benediciton o peace
won oot o wark, as gin a sain warmed us
and mebbe did in a moment whaun
oor naethingness and joy were ane
slow the vast turn o constellations.
Syne back til it a while or the pale early blue
lichtened the muckle winnocks abuin
and we kent the daw wis near and us
near duin. The fairmhoose sat on a hill
and we saw, at straiking o day,
acres o Angus streeched oot and we kent
that the fields wad aye gie up their grouthe
tho we, blythesome-weary, prepared for sleep.