Seonaidh Charity

Mapaichean

Dh’fhosgail sibh an doras, a’ cur fàilte oirnn tighinn a-steach,
air falbh bhon dìle-bhàithte is an t-adhar dorch,
is dh’fhairich mi am fàileadh sin, ris an robh mi a’ dèanamh fiughair:
còinnteach bhog is fraoch cùbhraidh,
barrailean dubh-ghorm, fuar, còmhdaichte le ola ùr,
is blas na feòla amh, loibht’ is milis.

Sheas sinn, an-fhoiseil, sa chidsin,
fhad ’s a sgeadaicheadh am bòrd le
mapaichean, peansailean is glainneachan iomchaidh uisge-beatha,
is chuir sibh ur taic ri cathair,
a chumadh dìreach ur casan leathann.

Chomharraich sibh slighe eadar
Beinn Liath Mhòr agus Sgùrr nan Each
a’ dèanamh gàire ribh fhèin, a’ cuimhneachadh air
uaislean dòchasach a’ dìreadh air èiginn,
cuideam ana-mhòr an fhèidh a’ teàrnadh.

Bhlàthaich sibh, a’ gabhail ris a’ ghnìomh air an dara drama
ag aithris mun latha a chuir sibh argo leis a’ chreig,
a’ sadail ainm-àite an dèidh ainm-àite,
mise, cabhagach, gan sgrìobhadh ann an IPA cugallach.

An dèidh uair a thìde choimhead sibh rium,
claoidhte, mar gum b’ ann a’ faighneachd ‘fòghnaidh sin?’
gun fhiosta dhuibh gur e cus a bh’ ann –
m’ inntinn a’ dol mar srannachan le pròiseactan is mapaichean
is an dealbh nach robh mi air togail.

Thàinig gnog aig an doras –
ur n-ogha a’ faighneachd mun fheur-saidhe,
a’ coimhead rinn agus ur n-obair, a’ gàireachdainn ris fhèin,
a’ bualadh an dorais dùinte às a dhèidh.

Charaich sibh, mar gum b’ ann a’ dùsgadh bho bhruadar,
thionndaidh sibh, shuidh sibh is rinn sibh deiseil son an dealbh.

 - Translation - 

Map Reading

You opened the front door and beckoned us in
from the lashing rain and the dark skies
and I felt that smell I had anticipated:
damp moss and sweet heather,
cold blued barrels, freshly oiled
and a trace of raw meat turning rank and sweet.

We stood awkwardly in the kitchen,
as the table was scattered with
maps, pencils and modest glasses of whiskey
and you leaned one arm on the chair,
to support your great, wavering frame.

You traced a route from
Beinn Liath Mhòr to Sgùrr nan Each,
laughing to yourself as you remembered
dragging expectant toffs up the hill,
and the dead weight of deer down.

You warmed to the task by the second dram,
recounting the time you sent an argo off a cliff,
throwing place name after place name,
as I frantically wrote them down in amateur IPA.

After an hour you looked to me,
exhausted, as if to say ‘is that enough?’
not realising it was too much -
my mind swimming with projects and maps
and the need for the photo I had yet to take.

Then a knock at the door -
your nephew asking where to move the hay,
looking at us and your task, laughing to himself,
slamming us in.

You stirred, as though waking from a dream,
turned, sat down and posed for your picture.