It’s ill tae mine

James Fenton
It’s ill tae mine, wae a’
The years an a’
The ither;
Yit ivery booin brench o the sally,
Tal an strecht an lang
Awa,
Wuz skeenklin gless, clear an shairp,
Teenklin frae oot the sky in spails an
Flitterin bricht
Saft-plappin
Inty the poothery snow, wreathed
Deep, saft-white an quait
A’ ower the sheugh an dake.
An we trevelled thonway
Flippin,
Lillies baith,
Skeich-geeglin at
Ither,
Ower the pakked, broon-padded snow, whur
Nae road wuz, hir
Sae licht, sae lichtsome, quick-lachin
Doon, thonway, a keechlin
Hizzy, howlin
Ticht an het
A wain’s clinched fist tae,
Then, we gaen by
The waitin gate, quait-hingin, whur ye
See it yit,
Wee roses keekin,
Bricht draps o blid, frae oot the snow; yit
Niver mine
Gan in the dorr.
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Contents: Ullans: The Magazine for Ulster-Scots, Nummer 7 Wunter 1999