C’m’oan, says he. A’ll

show ye sumpin.

An e pairtit the gress owre

a haunfu o spraikled eggs,

creamy lik stanes frae the burn,

while the dirl o the whaups shewed

thegither a blach't lift frae

the twa-three torn rags o win

that flichtered abune oor heids.

Nocht else did e say.

There wis nae need.

For the whaup eggs lay gaithert

lik a peatstane against whilk

the hale warl raistit its waicht,

an frae whilk the hip o th’ Earth

drapp’t awaa in a stey airch

doon the braes o time an space,

an spaik fine weel fur thirsels.