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Cromarty - May 2017 'There was a word, a holy word that came to me when I first heard you speak and saw as much as felt that Bardic fire in you begin to rise and leap into and through your eyes to cry To see us and in your seeing bring us back into ourselves into the heart of our own being into the soul of our own seeing so we could truly stand upon and by the earth on which we live' Margot Henderson  Cromarty - May 2017 - Ruth Field
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. Sharon MacGregor This poem is written in memory of Bobby Hogg, the last surviving speaker of the Cromarty fisherfolk dialect  Rosemarkie Beach 2/5/2017
Ruth Field |
