Sgàilean
Air an t-slighe sìos
gu ruige ’n caladh anns a’ bhreacarsaich
agus an Western Isles a’ fuireach,
a lìon beag is beag,
chaidh na rionnagan às an t-sealladh.
Thall am bad
air choreigin, dh’fhairich mi fead.
Chaidh na h-eòin às.
Dh’fhàs an speur dearg.
Agus cuid aca, mun àm sin
agus an dà thràth ri dealachadh,
nach ann a bhuail iad anns an sgàilean
mar gun robh iad a’ feuchainn
ri cur às dhaibh fhèin.
Translations of this Poem
This evening
Translator: John Burnside
This evening
Walking down
To the harbour,
I pictured The Western Isles
Filling up, piece by piece,
As the stars went down.
Above the hull,
From somewhere, I heard
A whistle.
The birds disappeared,
The sky reddened,
And some of them,
Wild with flight,
Didn’t they crash against
The screen, like feathered
Suicides?
About this poem
This poem and the translation or ‘response’ were published in Dreuchd An Fhigheadair / The Weaver’s Task: a Gaelic Sampler, edited by Christopher Whyte, and published by the Scottish Poetry Library in 2007. Seven Scottish poets with no knowledge of Gaelic were offered literal versions of contemporary Gaelic poems. Their responses were published alongside the Gaelic originals in the book, and can also be read on the website collected under the tag: The Weaver’s Task.
