:: First published in Northern Renewal issue 1.


Keek the deek in your een, moots ye coud, kens ye winna, moots an kens. Whitna hus mak up ye, whir am wir muisic, souched thegither, wir places, wir causes, whir am wir faes, haudin sich a lenth atweesh us…ma no yit quean? Keek the deek in ma een, whan anely it abides.

Be Ah gentle, Ah’ll sicht yer derned saicrits, thon kist o a hert, an deek.
Be Ah fou a hershened strounge, Ah wid loss yer maist-est douce seempathees, an thon vir, an smirk, an hert…an deek.
Cry me maister ae haiveless twistles a hame-drauchit doucity.
Cry me wanwirdie an yersel a richt fasher.

Am staundin here lik some wicelike mensed eedgit spunnin ma gless but willna keek awa. Ye’re staundin here the lik a some lingerin angel (shid Himsel allow), no budgin for man. For me. Smirkin, halflins…outthrou. A wha? Ah keek aboon me. No man. For me.
Ye’re staundin thare, unner an widden airch whit say: ‘2015 :: Better Canna Be’, wi pensil an streamer, an tinsel an…ah.

Keek the deek in her een, tak tent tae it, an stap, stap thon sistin havers.


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