Hoose o Strae

In, oot tha simmer sin,
Tha weefla rinnin wile
Tae Uncle Davie’s hye-shade.
Luk at thon,
Hae!
Hale cairt-fu’s o bales bigged heich.
Hye, or mebbe straa, or strae, wus it?
Uncle Davie cud tell ye
He’d a knowed oniehoo
Frae whut he wrocht theyeir,
Frae tha coorse taak o tha nighbors,
Frae his ain fiels an days,
O puein, an plantin,
An cuttin.
He knowed tha seed an breed o thaim aa.

In, oot tha gowden sin,
Tha meeda’s roastit gress
Tha coarnfiel’s gaithert crap
Tae Uncle Davie’s hye-shade.
Tha leevin proof
O iverie fairm,
Growein
Hootchin wi beese, wi gress, wi craps
Wi freens.
Iverie clump, thegither, wi tha yin root.
Iverie fiel a plantit tribe
O skailt seeds an tap breeds.
Ilka young blade
Pushin fur its ain place
In tha sin
Tae tha Reaper cum.

New bales noo bigged up
In giant steps
Stye
Up heich tae tha heid yins
Aa tha yin size, but, an poodher dry
Square as tha fiels,
Lake free-stane blocks, yella breeks
Bigged tha heicht o a hoose
Safe as hooses
Nae big bad wolf cud blaa
Uncle Davie’s hoose o strae doon.
Fur him
A secret hidey-hole
A wee hut fur tha makkin
A wairm nest amang Uncle Davie’s bales.
Boon tae be.

Davie wus lachin, fur his hoose wus slate’t.
“Tha yin thaing aboot thaim balers noo -
Tha strae’s nae uise fur thatchin”.
Tha coarn stacks in tha fiels lang syne,
Wus thatch’t forbye
Tha heid shaifs
On huts o coarn.
But noo tha strae
Aa push’d an beetle’t tae a pulp
In a ticht-boon bale hel thegither wi stranglin twine
Ticht eneuch tae cut tha han
O a weefla no strang eneuch tae lift
A lifeless bale
Harp-strung wi hingman’s raip.
Coontless dry banes o hairst, deid
Daen an dustit pushed dead
Square intae a machine.
Nae life noo
Apairt frae whut micht cum an
Mak its hame
Amang tha bales.

In, amang tha bales
Tha weefla stabs a tunnel.
Eneuch o an apenin jist
Fur ticht, draa’d in shoothers
Atween an up near tha tap
His ain wee hidlins hut
Big eneuch
Fur craalin in tae tha dairk
Wairm wame.

Anither warl, deep dairk in tha strae
Deep in his ain heid
Tha thocht o it
Hairt-liftin mystrie
Nae turnin bak, nae lukin bak
Nae licht, nae air
Huntin his past
Draims.
Hairt-stappin, heid turnin
Mooth shut agin tha stour.

A weel-shewed button catched tha ticht twine.
Hans an elbas trap’t forrit
Abane his shoothers
Wairm an ticht an dairk
Nae halie licht nor breath
O wun
Afore him noo.

A dug snorts in
Mair het air roon his anklers
Or a big bad wolf
Sweetin
Or tha deil hissel
Dairkenin tha dorr
Tha trap dorr
O this craalin hell-hole.

Jist twarthie fit awa
Ahint
Tae tha apen air
Whar tha halie spurit blaa’s like tha wun,
Whar it wull,
Tae cries o danger.
“Loard, Get iz oot!”

Blin panic.
Nae air tae breathe
Nae air fur sweerin, mutterin
Or makkin prayers oot lood,
Nae point oniehoo
Gulderin
Intae this saft queeit moontain o deid
Empie ears.
“There’s rats in thonner”
He mindit.
Elbas an airms an airse buckin an flailin
Tha strae
An tha deil in tha bales
Airsein oot
Shovin like buck mad.

Tae at lang last,
Oot
Free
Bak in tha lan
O tha leevin.
In tae tha apen air
Yinst mair.

Oot, in tha apen air
Dichtin wee bits o strae
Fae boggin claes.
Risin mair stour tae gar him blaa his neb.
Blak snatters, sair itchy een.
God
Nae lang’r mindit noo Uncle Davie cums up.
“Wud ye quat yer spittin”, quo he, “whut’s wrang”?
Tha weefla apen’t his tremmlin mooth,
“A wud gie oniethin tae get ma heid dunked in tha wattèr”.

Tha weefla’s blether wus near his een.
“Tha Meetin Hoose or tha lint hole”?
Davie axt, half coddin.
“Tha dam’ll dae richtlie”,
Dead serious.
“Ye’r aisie pleased. But mine”, quo he,
“There’s rats in thonner”.

Davie knowed tha dunkin tha weefla needit
Afore tha Reaper cum