A’ Chreag Lom Seo | This Barren Rock
dàn le Ciorstaidh A NicDhòmhnaill
poem by Kirsty A Macdonald
A’ Chreag Lom Seo
(o aithris air Hiort sa Ghlasgow Herald, 1852)
Tha na speuran a’ gluasad fo na mìltean de dh’òrain,
Ag itealaich, ag èirigh, aotram air sgiath
Tha e a’ sreap gu cùramach, ceum air cheum, glùn air creag
An craidheal a’ tulgadh ’s e ga lìonadh le beartas a’ bhearraidh
A’ gluasad gu dìcheallach, mar shlighe air mapa.
Tuitidh cuid dhiubh, le tuireadh,
’S e ag aideachadh a’ challa le cromadh-cinn, agus a’ cumail air.
Beatha agus bàs, a’ crìonadh an còmhnaidh,
agus a’ sìneadh.
Tha e a’ breithneachadh bruthach fo sholas grèine ùir.
Na facail shlaodach, shocair aige cùramach sa chànan eile seo,
Nach eil nuadh no nàdarra dha, ’s e a’ tighinn gu cliopach
Chun an rud a tha e a’ feuchainn ri mhìneachadh:
Chan eil am bruthach ro chas idir agus gabhaidh an cur ann.
Air aghaidh chun an ath fhear, gun fhois,
Mar shùlaire an gailleann.
Toiseach a rathaid-dhìridh.
A’ cuimhneachadh air ìrean eile iteil
Agus am fàileadh aca uile, gach beatha beò,
Agus a làmhan a’ gluasad gun smuain,
Fios anns na fèithean, a-steach ’s a-mach, com a’ dol suas ‘s sìos.
Mus tionndaidh a’ bhliadhna, tha uaine air nochdadh
Air na creagan, a bha uair lom, den aoineadh annasach seo.
Thuirt iad nach bu chòir, nach b’ urrainn dha an cur;
Ach a-nis cha ghabh na craobhan seo a leigeil.
[Chaidh Ciortstaidh a bhrosnachadh gus an dàn seo a sgrìobhadh le sgeulachd o Sheila Quillin bhon Mhorbhairne. Faodar èisteachd ris an sgeul gu h-ìosal.
Dealbh den Aoineadh Mhòr le Rhona NicDhùghaill. Chithean barrachd dealbhan on aon àite an seo: Ruigheachd.]
This Barren Rock
(from a description of St Kilda in the Glasgow Herald, 1852)
The sky shifts under a thousand songs,
Swirling, soaring, swift of wing
He climbs with care, hand over hand, knee on rock
The basket rocks as he fills it with the riches of the cliffs
His movements, deft and diligent, like contour lines across a map.
Some fall, but not without mourning,
Conceding the loss with a nod of head, and onwards
Not barren, but mortal, life always ending,
yet also beginning.
He surveys a hillside under the glint of a different sun.
His slow and steady words fit cautiously round this other language,
Neither new nor natural, he haltingly reaches
What he has been trying to explain to the man for several minutes:
The hillside is not too steep and can be planted readily.
The man moves on to the next, never resting,
Wheeling like a bird in a storm.
He begins his ascent.
Remembering the shifting layers of flight
And the smell of a thousand lives, every breathing thing,
As his hands perform the familiar movement,
Muscle memory, in and out, a chest rising and falling.
Before the turn of the year, green appears
On the once barren crags of this strange slope.
They said it shouldn’t, couldn’t, be sown;
But now these trees cannot be felled.
[Kirsty was inspired to write this poem by a story from Sheila Quillin from Morvern. You can listen to it below.
Image of Aoineadh Mòr by Rhona NicDhùghaill. You can see more images from the same place here: Ruigheachd.]