Cry cuckold the muin
they horns are nae mine
they pierce nae the herts
that milk white dreep slaw
oan the crammasy snaw:
they pierce nae the herts
that the hell hoonds hairrie.
The hunts noo whaur the geese hing,
early nicht whaun the licht matters,
whaur the bulls horn the kist crators;
nae Eagle daith the herts rip
nae bluid fued sterts or ends noo.

For ilka day
five items o knawledge
frae awe wiselike fowk:
the day o the sin's month
the ages o the muin
the sea tide athoot error
the day o the week.

Lang the day oan the yirds raits,
lang the waittin oan lifes edge
rune readin yer ain lifes pledge.
Muckle the stick Deep Feeder
tap rait sookin the centre
seekin the space whaur knawledge is born.
Atween beech brainches oan a winters nicht
the deep lift blinters its ain licht;
clear the bare stick staunds inset wie sternies
roond as the harns is the shape o the croon.
Subtle as nerve ends the sternies are pulsein
brainches are beekit wie livein thocht.

For ilka day
ain item o knawledge
frae awe wiselike fowk.

Its for man, if ony, tae say ocht
aboot the crazy pooer o a bluidlettin,
the crazy pooer o a wild creation
that begets poems an no bairns.
A hole it leaves in the faithers soul;
the hert wuid, sair centre, foul,
saes he is noo disjaskit, incompleat;
whummelt as a warrior.
Noo its his ain weird he maun dree
makan wie his ain mind an haund
patterns, messages oan wund an saund
wie nae mithers bluid in their banes.

For ilka day
twae items o knawledge
frae awe wiselike fowk:
the time o the bluidlettin
the time o the beggetin.

A boon the bluidlettin o weemin,
tae them the final act o creation.
Eftar derk nurture an growth a life
is giein in awe the stramash, the strife,
the clanjamfrie o the yirds quiet turnin.
Lunar puu oan tide an harns
seed an egg their fine daunce mak
wame enfoldit hert throb bricht
crammasy an ticht the licht.
Whaur life sterts creation begins
pentit oan caves or hingin oan waas
sherp the blinter o the auld bluid.

For ilka day
thrice the items o knawledge
frae awe wiselike fowk:
the time o the egg
the time o the seed
the ages o the bluid.

Brek yet the watters whaur the seeds blossom,
howl yet the lungs wie a crack thats awesome
as air breenges in expandin an fawin
catcht bi the beat o the hert new thumpin
airms an shanks get their first streetchin
fists baw an curle taes speir eftar walkin
word chords streetcht ticht harns bellow for talkin.
Noo seed an egg jine in jizzen bed
giein age again tae bluid borne patterns
that flow through bairn an timeless clan
haudin thegither wie a fierce fiery faith
the jowkin, jinkin journey intill daith.

For ilka day
fower items o knawledge
frae awe wiselike fowk:
the seed o life
the egg o life
the time o birth
the time o daith.

Breengein frae the belly button, the foreheid,
neck bent back oan saft skin liein
lips touch gowd an smeddum faws apairt
intae awe its mixter maxter bits; a lost clutch:
the snake swallies its tail, the torques ends touch.
In the spiralin circle the cumulus brek
an the pinnacle o the yird is lowssed,
baists real an ghaistlike trauchle owre the lift,
the deid an undeid tak their shiftin seats,
shankbane trumpets blaw the final beats,
bodhrans crash, lichts pulse an fade,
in ancient rythmns the yird is remade.

For ilka day
the fifth item o knawledge
frae awe wiselike fowk:
tae ken the hail sang athoot.
error.

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