guthan chalanais
1
seallaibh sinne
dh’èirich às a’ mhòintich
far an do chaidil sinn
tro linntean dìochuimhn’
an-diugh nar sgeinean maola
gearradh an àile
2
chunnaic aon t-sùil màthair
a’ pasgadh pàiste
ann am fillean seàla
cluinn an guth òg
a’ faicinn cearban,
gob is druim siùbhlach
clach mi a-mhàin,
a sheas ann a sheo
bhon a thogadh mi
3
dè bha iad a’ cunntas, a dhearbh
tro rèiteachadh àraid chlach
gun èireadh a’ ghealach san aon
àirde, gach tomhas bhliadhna, ‘s
gu ruitheadh i, na dannsa ìseal
thar nan ruighe shìos, ann an
slighe dho-fhaicsinneach dè
4
tha naidheachd nan linn
anns gach druim dìreach balbh,
dhan aigne earbsach –
clàr-dùthcha sa chlach seo,
faic eilean ‘s a chòrsan eagach,
cnuic is glinn san aghaidh eile,
ged a rachadh tìm na tuaineal
air a’ ghaoith, seasaidh na tha
seo de dhraoidhean fuara, ‘s
na freiceadain àrda nan cip
gorma còinnich, air faire bhuan
Translations of this Poem
callanish voices
1
observe us
who rose from the moorland
where we had slept
through forgetful centuries
now we are blunt knives
cutting the air
2
one eye saw a mother
wrapping an infant
in the folds of a shawl
hear the young voice
seeing a shark,
beak and swift back
i’m only a stone
that has stood here
since i was raised
3
what were they counting, those who proved
through a particular arrangement of stones
that the moon would rise at the same
point each span of years and
that it would run, in a low dance
along that southern ridge , as an
invisible god’s peregrination
4
the account of centuries is
in every straight silent spine,
to the trusting mind –
there’s a map in this stone,
see an island with its notched coasts,
hills and glens on the other face
and though time should go spinning
on the wind, what’s here of
cold druids will stand, and
the tall sentries in their green
caps of moss, on perpetual watch
