The sculptor
and Persephonie.
Sweet curves in a cauld wund.
The edge ai the Hieland wund
caws the rough frae ivverie stane,
till they pirl thirsels in,
is if beasts frae the cauld.
Sich smoothness ai stane suggests
an age an wisdom
even grander than is actual.
There is a kind ai contrary comfort
caused be sic coorse carresses.
Bit in sic a wundy airt
that is kind tae rock
is gey savage oan skin;
espaicially oan folk
frae cannier climes.
A smooth-skinned lass,
a Saracen Princess,
wi hur son rowed intae hur,
wynds shair-fuited
roond glowerin hills,
thit ur platchin in sheddae
an bluid weit heather.
She seeks hur templar knight,
whae she tended long efter battle,
till heez hert meltit along side hurs
in hur royal chambers in Turkey.
Alas duty and, hame must claim him,
but promised tae hur that he'd return,
Her long raxed wait browt a fine son.
Now hur courage wus bringin thir news.
Ma hands are is a kindly wund
ower the contours ai this stane.
Frae fists ai secreted light
Ah draw oot hur smoothness,
hur sweepin curves,
hur gait, hur flowin dress, hur hair,
thit speak ai the sea,
hur compass, hur epic journey.
Bit sic a promise wus like a whusper
oan a blustery wund ai ither words,
ither meanins, crummlie intentions.
Hur knight hud tain the hand ai anither,
an wusnae tae risk a loss ai respect
he browt hur doon wi a sleekit knife,
sparin neither thir gentle son.
An now folk can gaze upon yer semblance,
surmise yer beauty, immerse in yer story
Persephonie, awmaist five hunner year efter
ye wur dealt wi sic bluiddy treachery
an long efter thon traitor's dirt hes fed the earth.
Beildit be the trees ablow Benachie,
let yer light shine oot frae yer stane,
touch muny herts fur the longest syne.
James P. Spence 13.3.05.