Snaidhte
’S e fhèin a tha ga dhèanamh,
A’ tilgeil ghathan a-nuas gam bhualadh,
Is loidhnichean geala son mo stiùireadh tron oidhche,
Mar a dh'fhàgas iad dubh air gaineamhan rèidhe -
’S iad-san nan laighe gu ciùin.
Tha statach nan speur a’ fosgladh,
Air fàs bog, mothar na fheitheamh,
’S e a’ priobadh a shùilean gu fiadhaich
Gus tonn mu dheireadh nan eachraidh a ghlacadh;
Agus tha e fhathast sàmhach na bhualadh
Nuair a nochdas a' chlach àrd ud shìos.
Tha a chumadh air tiormachadh,
Air a dhèanamh dìreach, dearbh-chlò na sheasamh an àrd;
Agus airson mionaid, seasaidh mise
Gun ghluasad, a’ feitheamh.
’S e clach cuimhne a’ chladach,
Is na gràbhail oirre ri tàmh gun atharrachadh,
A dh’aindeòin nan gaothan borba a tha mun cuairt oirre, ga sèideadh.
Dall san t-solas seo,
Le meur tha mi a’ leantainn a sgrìobhaidhean;
Crois a rugadh à geama chairtean dhealbhaichte,
Mar a thig puist-theilegraif Bhreatannach
Gu bhith nan Calbharaidhean cloiche
Ma sheallas mi suas orra
San dòigh dìreach cheart -
Len gàirdeanan de mheatailt air an sìneadh shuas,
Sàmhach mar chactas ann an ùrnaigh,
Crathadh-guailne ris an adhar bhàn.
Bhon chlach seo chunna mi mi fhèin a’ dol tro mo bheatha
Mar àireamh shnaidhte, mar dhath neo
Mar sgòr;
Agus mar làn sheata chairtean air a mheasgachadh
Is air a chunntadh na do làimh.
Ach tha an leac seo
Cho fuar ri mo dhùthaich fhèin,
Agus le sin tha mi air chrith,
A’ coimhead a-mach, dèanta dìreach,
Is air mo phutadh air ais, a-rithist,
Le tilleadh nan tonn.
Tha fios agam gun urrainn dhut a dhèanamh, A Dhè,
Athair nan cuantan a bheanas ris an dà chladach
A sgaras sinn o chèile air astar.
Giùlaineam thairis orra aon uair eile
Son a bhith a’ deasbad air àireamhan is cumaidhean
Le rìghrean Frangach, nan luchd-poilitigs.
An dèidh sin ’s na dhèidh,
Tha e, an diugh cheart cho duilich dhomh bhith dìreach seasamh
’S a bha e riamh.
Translations of this Poem
Carved
He’s the one who’s doing it,
Casting angles down to strike me
And white lines to lead me by night,
To where they shock black the flat sands as they lie.
The sky’s static opens, made tender in its waiting
And blinks its eyes furiously to catch
The cavalry’s last wave, and it’s silent in its thrashing
Reveal of the tall stone here, below.
Its shape is dried down, made positive, upright
And for this moment I stand still awaiting,
Stone is coast’s memory and its carvings rest unchanging –
Those raving winds around it, all blowing.
Blind in this light, I trace its graffiti with a finger,
A cross born from card games illustrated, just like
British telegraph poles become Calvaries in stone
If I look up at them in just the right way –
Their arms reaching metal,
Up in quiet cactus position,
A shrug of devotion held tight in blank air.
And from this stone I’ve felt myself live
As a carved number, a score;
And a whole suit shuffled, then counted in your hand.
But this slab is as cold as my country so I shiver
Peering out flat, pressed back down by those waves,
Now returned.
I know that you can do it, God,
The father of these seas
That touch both white coasts pushing us apart.
Carry me across them once more to debate numbers,
And shapes with French kings, politicians;
Just standing is as hard as it used to be.
About this poem
Snaidhte by Elissa Hunter-Dorans was written for a Young Makars project produced by the Scottish Poetry Library and Edinburgh Printmakers in July 2026.
