Firewirks owre Bressa Soond by Christine De Luca

Shetland

Licht fades peerie-wyes i da simmer dim;
hills cut-oot, black on a egg-shall sky.
Toon lichts mirl, da Soond flat calm.
You hadd your breath an Shetland sinks
her clooers athin you, beds her doon.
At da crack o firewirks fae da Bressa side
a sel skoits, dooks him ithoot a soond.
Rockets burst heich owre dark watter
een eftir tidder. Abön wis, da sky is
a swirl o cotts, a birl i da darknin.
Der somethin aboot beauty poored oot
at catches i da trot; aboot da prodigal
at laeves wis moothless, winderin,
lik wi da ocean, da lönabrak.


Fireworks over Bressay Sound

Shetland

Light fades gently in summer twilight;
hills cut-out, black on an egg-shell sky.
Town lights shimmer, the Sound flat calm.
You hold your breath and Shetland sinks
her claws in you, beds down.
At the crack of fireworks from the Bressay side
a seal scouts out, slips under soundlessly.
Rockets burst high over dark water
one after another. Above us, the sky is
a swirl of petticoats, a whirl in the darkening.
There’s something about beauty poured out
that catches in the throat; about the prodigal
that leaves us speechless, wondering,
like with the ocean, the breaking surf.


Christine De Luca, Edinburgh, UK

Love in a caald climate by Christine De Luca

Hit wisna his widden palin
nor da openwark o steyns set
ta brack da wind, nor
da hedder he prammed
atween fences; nor

da tang he tör fae da ebb
an turned an turned, nor
his fingers brackin clods;
nor wis hit da sun scrimin
peerie-wyes. Na, hit wis

da draem shö planted
an a rösin ithin her luik
as shö stakit hit, willin
da wan rose ta oppen,
ta hadd mirknen.


Love in a cold climate

It wasn’t his wooden paling
nor the stone latticework set
to break the wind, nor
the heather he stuffed
between fences; nor

the seaweed he tore from foreshore
and turned and turned, nor
his fingers breaking clods;
nor was it the sun making things out
gently. No, it was

the dream she planted
and the praise within her look
as she staked it, willing
the one rose to open,
to hold twilight.


L’amour sous un climat froid - translated by Jean-Paul Blot

Ce n’était pas sa palissade,
ni le mur en pierres sèches
pour couper le vent, ni
la bruyère pour boucher
les clôtures, ni

le varech qu’il tirait depuis le rivage
et qu’il tournait et retournait, ni
ses doigts brisant des mottes ;
ni le soleil faisant doucement
ressortir les choses. Non, c’était

le rêve qu’elle plantait,
encouragement dans son regard
tandis qu’elle l’étayait, désirant
que s’ouvre la rose,
qu’elle retienne le crépuscule.


Christine De Luca, Edinburgh, UK

Whatsoever Things are Lovely by Christine De Luca

'Whatsoever things are lovely..think on these things.' Philippians 4, 8

A smoor o paets: a simmer foo

a hent fae timeless broos at,

haddin der dark fire, cuppit

fair Lungawater. I da sun

da paety loch glansed

secret an boddomless.

Jöst oot a reck, a tize

o water-lilies flotit,

luscious an exotic,

intae a Monet.

Da day, i da toon,

du skypit up ta me,

alive ta ivery element;

open on a loch o trust.

Afore I gud, du closed

petal airms aroond me.

A flash o Eden, surely,

or a braeth o Lungawater;

a charm fornenst da grummel

steered up itae dis fragile wirld.

A drizzle of peats: a simmer full

to glean from timeless slopes that,

holding their dark fire, cupped

fair Lungawater. In the sun

the peaty lake sparkled

secret and bottomless.

Just out of reach, a lure

of water-lilies floated,

luscious and exotic,

into a Monet.

In the town today,

you skipped up to me,

alive to every element;

open on a lake of trust.

Before I went, you closed

petal arms around me.

A flash o Eden, surely,

or a breath of Lungawater;

a charm against the muddiness

stirred up within this fragile world.

Christine De Luca, Edinburgh, Scotland

This poem also appears on the Scottish Poetry Library website here.