Language
Hands unloading: Bekkie Blance Jarvis Maujenes Questatch Haragold Fubbister
There as many words here as trees. They mak the skyline hard tae read, mak hid hard tae mind whar yur fae.
The gutter girls, I mind the skirl o their tongues, cuttan under yur ear, hittan bone lik their knives, here then gone.
Dutchmen at Login’s Inn, cheeks lik cheeses, a creamy, curdled thickness in the mooth, words pigtail – blond.
Du’ll no be gluffd by a peerie scaur, the Lerookman said. Are you French, said the Grimsbyman, openan his throat fur the burn.
That wis nothin! On this shore the black folk speak Orkney, the bosses talk business, the Frenchies sing love while they’re paddlin, the servants hing ower a window, a stove or a fish hole an yarn aboot hom. They’re missan the language that sits at the fire, axs if the kettle is on.
Morag MacInnes, from Alias Isobel: an Orkney narrative (Orkney: Hansel Cooperative Press, 2008)
Poem supplied courtesy of the Scottish Poetry Library |