Thàinig mi an seo a lorg rudeigin.
Bho bhonn na beinne, bidh loidhne dhìreach, chothromach
A’ sruthadh ann an uaine ’s geal,
Dathan a’ gheallaidh.
’S mar sin, thèid mi suas a-steach, do bhroinn a’ choire.
Bidh an allt a’ fabhradh ’s a’ clabaireadh ri clachan,
A ro-ruithear fhèin.
Dè am fear a thug comadh air an fhear eile?
Sin a tha mi airson faighinn a-mach.
Bidh grian anmoch a’ dortadh thairis air creagan a tha air tuiteam;
Bidh fallas a’ teànadh sìos leabaidh na h-aibhne a’ chur gaoir orm.
Bidh uisge solleir a’ sruthadh mar smuain gun chrìoch, ’s
A’ ciùneachadh pathadh an dèidh a’ chiad ghath fhuair.
An uairsin, coinnichidh mi ris a’ chrìoch – no ris an toiseach.
An nì nach fhaic an t-sùil fhathast, tha e a’ cagair fodha
Air an tarraing air ais a’ bhroinn an t-saoghail.
Bhon chnoc shuas,
tha craobh do-dhèanta a’ cumail freumhaichean nochdte,
a’ sìneadh a-mach airson rudeigin nach gabh ruigsinn.
’S ri mo thaobh,
tha càrn cloiche na laighe ri taobh na h-aibhne a shluig an talamh,
A’ comharrachadh na crìche eadar neonìtheachd is gach nì.
Burn of the Alder
I came here looking for something.
From the mountain’s foot, a fair, straight line
cascades in green and white,
the hues of an oath.
And so I go up, into the corrie’s belly.
The burn swirls and babbles at stone,
its own antecedent.
Which one shaped the other?
That is what I want to know.
A late sun spills over tumbled crags;
sweat descends its riverbed of goosebumps.
Lucent water flows like thought unending, and
quiets thirst after its first cold sting.
Then I meet the end – or the beginning.
What the eye no longer sees still murmurs beneath,
withdrawn into the womb of the world.
From the outcrop above,
an impossible tree clings, roots exposed,
reaching for something beyond reach.
And to my side,
a stone cairn rests by the earth-swallowed stream,
marking the boundary between nothing and everything.
Lead image: Creag nan Uamh © Scotti Moody