Duanag mu dheidhinn Dòbhrain

Poetry

Dec 9

Pàdraig MacAoidh

Chuala mi gun robh na dòbhrain air splaoid a-raoir

airson an treas trup sa mhìos, a’ dèanamh fàsach

dhe taigh nan cearc. Cha do bhòt duine

air an son ach b’ seo iad, a’ gluasad gu luath,

a’ briseadh rudan, am fiaclan a’ toirt an fheòil on chnàmh

’s a’ fàgail nan iteagan, nan goban, na fala.

Chan eil cuimhn’ agam dè bh’ ann ro na dòbhrain—

minc, ’s dòcha, no ìolaire mara, seanchas mic-thìre—

ach ’s cinnteach gun robh rudeigin: tha sealgairean

a dhìth oirnn an-còmhnaidh, gus ar trapan a cheadachadh,

na feansaichean-chearc a chaidh a gheàrradh tro na freumhan,

gus ciall a dhèanamh dhen ghrìs fhàidheil san ugh.

Latha-eigin, bidh sinn ag ionndrainn nan dòbhran,

bidh cianalas againn air na deisean slìogach dubh’.

I’ve heard that the otters were at it again,

the third time this month, making a desert

of the hen house. Nobody voted for them,

yet there they were, moving fast, breaking things,

their teeth stripping flesh from the bone,

leaving blood, feathers, broken beaks.

I don’t remember what came before them—

mink maybe, sea eagles, the folk memory of a wolf—

but there must have been something:

some hunter we could use to explain our traps,

the proleptic shuddering in the egg,

the chicken wire we dug deep through the roots.

Oh, one day we’ll miss those otters,

be nostalgic for their sleek brown suits.

First published in Issue #32

Peter Mackay is a writer and academic from the Isle of Lewis. He is currently serving as Makar, Scotland’s national poet.

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