This vivid evocation of  a northern childhood is by Sheena Blackhall and comes from her new pamphlet, Wind-Blawn: Poems in Scots and English (published by Malfranteaux Concepts, August 2017, £3).

CHILDHOOD IN THE CUP OF A GLEN

Memories blaze up like wildfire in my thoughts

I grew up with the Gaelic of places in my ears

~

On summer nights, I heard the thunder speak

Grumbling between the hills like a beast in a cage

Back and fore, back and fore between the heather Bens

~

The moon was a jiggly Chinese lantern bleared by rain

Always, I heard the river, murmuring

Like granny when she muttered in her sleep

~

And it seemed like the walls were paper thin

Could tear wide open, letting the thunder enter

~

The wind rose and fell in waves

Like painted galloping horses in a carousel

~

As a child I spoke the language of the glen

Its nights, its days, stepping from the ladder of the river

Up to the loft of the Bens. My skin smelt of thyme and peat

My footsteps cupped its pebbles. My tongue was a green fern

~

The glen was a cunning woman, a healer

A Cailleach of hopes and secrets

It held the elixir of life, the alchemy of youth. . .

(to be concluded tomorrow)