I didna speak whan it bleetert doon.
Ma man wis gey taen up wi' getting us
sortit, an' it wis fell lang afore we had
the bastes in an' the fowl settled.
I didna speak
whan the watters spewed
ower ma rigs o' corn an' doon the street
intae ma hoose amangst ma rugs
an' the bonny things I had fae ma mither.
I didna speak
whan I heard ma frien
Becca battrin at the howe o' wir boat,
her bairn in her airms, yowlin like een
o' the damned o'Hell. We had linkit
doon the years fae bairnie tae wife.
Ma bonny hinnie, weel-hertit Becca.
I clappit ma haunds tae ma lugs
an' flung ma airms aboot ma laddies,
but still I didna speak
I didna speak
whan the lift grew black an' blacker
an' there wis naither muin nor sun an' the cries
that had been aa aboot us wir smoored.
Nae soond on that black sea but the doonfa, the dreep,
the plowt, the pish-oot o' grey watter on grey watter.
I canna speak
o' the things on the watter
as the days drave on – swollen an' blae,
wi the sea-maws skirlin an' pickin, skirlin an' pickin.
Syne whan the well-heid dried an' the watters sank,
the laund, oor bonny laund, slaich an' slairy
wi' black glaur,
an’ oorsels alane.
But whan I gang the low road on the hinmaist day
an' I climb the steps for my tryst wi' God
I will look the Almichty in the face –
an' I will hae ma say
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