Back from a week in Cromarty - The Black Isle - Scotland.
Did the bridges break thee,
humble sons of Galilee, gathered
on that bleak tip of Black Isle
where hippies and outlaws, never
brought up to it, clambered
like children over rocks at Rosemarkie
and spent their days trokin highs.
What changed on this land that bears
a strange light, did they bring
new fish to your plate, no biggar-man,
thee, who with never a curse carried out
droog-droogle in thine bauchles -
mair even than the Jenny mucks -
whilst watching tumblers in the ocean.
At now kacka, no-one knows how
to barb a hook. Were you there
before Him, or was the Lord aboot thee
the day the last of the plashack died.
This poem is written in memory of Bobby Hogg, the last surviving speaker of the Cromarty fisherfolk dialect
Rosemarkie Beach 2/5/2017
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