Gobha nan Glasan
Tha eòlas ann am buth gobha nan glasan
air Bread St o Theodore à Samos, o
Nineveh, uaithne toinnte Chonnecticut
’s Yale. Bhithinn nam thàilleabhach ann,
m’eanchainn làn boghan ’s bràide, cìre ’s deilge,
bloca, amhaich ’s cagain: bhithinn
ag aisling air bithis no iuchair cnàimhnich,
gach rud meatail ’s mogal ’s beàrn. Pràis
air a dhealtraich le cròm, corragan
a’ lainnrich le stàilinn bleithte
fo chraiceann na deàrna.
Bhithinn nam leth-dhìa ann, le mìle sgealb grèine,
stòr fiaclan dhric san glòir umha ’s òir,
rang an-eagalach an dèidh rang.
Agus bhiodh eud ort ro chinnt an t-saoghail-sa.
Eagan ’s bìdean air an tomhais gu bloigh
mhillemeatairean. Cliog soilleir nuair a bhios
an iuchair ceart, ’s straon nuair a chaidh
a gearradh sa meileadh sa liamhaidh
tuilleadh ’s a’ chòir. Tuigse cho gun bhrìgh
sa tha peacadh. Deannagan a’ garbh
fo chraiceann a’ mheòir.
The Locksmith
There’s knowledge in the locksmith’s on Bread St
from Theodore of Samos, from Nineveh,
the worked consonance of Connecticut and Yale.
I’d be a journeyman there, my mind shanks,
collars, pins, throating, blocks, someone who dreams
of vices and skeleton keys, all metal
and case and bow, brass plated in nickel or chrome;
whose palms glitter with ground steel
inlaid beneath the skin.
I’d be a demigod there with my thousand splints of sun,
a hoard of dragon’s teeth: their glaw
of copper and gold, row on redoubtable
row, and you’d envy the certainties
of my world. The notches and bittings measured
to fractions of millimetres. The clear click
when the key is right. The slip when the metal is cut,
milled, polished beyond an inch of its life.
The utter irrelevance of sin. That steel
gristling through the skin.
Peter Mackay is the author of Gu Leòr / Galore (Acair 2015) and From Another Island (Clutag 2010). He is originally from the Isle of Lewis, and is a Lecturer in Literature at the University of St Andrews.