Poem of the month
The March Burn
Whan Ah’d sat thur lang eneuch,
trauchlt tae ma feet,
dichtit awa the stour and blawn leaves,
the draibles and moose-keech
Ah wis hauf-smoorit in;
efter Ah’d shauchlt roon
tae try and wairm ma banes,
jiggin frae fit tae fit,
and aw the while ettlin tae unnerstaun
whit this place wis whaur Ah fun masel,
luikin aw aboot, it cam tae me:
shairly thon thur
rinnin richt by the lair whaur Ah’d lain
wis the March Burn!
And ower it, raxin daurk and faur
thon ither kintra, ane
Ah’d nae mind o nou,
nae mind at aw o venturin thur,
but hou else wad Ah hae got sae claggit
wi aw this leafs and glaur?
By nou thur wis a drouth on me
– a rare drouth,
but Ah wis sweirt, fir hadnae ye telt me
nivver tae drink sic watter,
sae black and yirdie,
as seepit intae the March burn,
no tae tak as muckle as the merest
slock or bebble,
fir nane could nou untwine
its blent babble,
nane could tell whit sup
sypit frae whit kintra.
But Acht, Ah thocht, the drooth
roch in ma thrapple,
whae in the hang cares, nowadays,
sae Ah bent doon and wi ma twa hauns
helpit masel tae a waucht o’t,
washt ma face wi’t,
rinsit ma een wi’t,
and stuid again, aw at wance
kennin fine weel whit it wis
had befawn me, aye,
and whit wey ma road lay nou.
When I’d sat there long enough, struggled to my feet, wiped away the dust and blown leaves, the smears and mouse-shit I was half smothered in; when I’d shuffled around to try to warm my bones, hopping from foot to foot, trying all the time to understand what place this was where I’d found myself, looking all around until it came to me: surely that there, running right beside the plot where I’d lain, was the Boundary Stream! And over it, reaching dark and far, was that other country, one I had no memory of now, no memory at all of venturing there, but how else would I have got so dirty with all these leaves and mud? By now I was very thirsty indeed, but I was reluctant for hadn’t you told me never to drink such water, so black and earthy, as seeped into the Boundary Stream, not so much as the merest mouthful or tipple, for no one now could split its blended babble, no one could tell which sip seeped from which country. But oh, I thought, the thirst rough in my throat, who cares nowadays, so I bent down and with my two hands, helped myself to a draft of it, washed my face with it, rinsed my eyes with it, and stood again, suddenly understanding what had befallen me, and which way my road lay now.
Kathleen Jamie (Makar 2021-2024)
from The Keelie Hawk: Poems in Scots (Picador:2024).
English prose translation by the author.
A March feast: borders, transitions, a donner into new life.
Jamie’s work features in this vote, deadline 13th March: https://www.parliament.scot/get-involved/canongate-wall-vote
IM
