by Andrew McCallum

1.
Easter,

the flinty boned season,
through which the wind whistles
and scours the remnant rags of flesh
from this sheep’s carcass,
leaving its sticks bleached clean
and white on the nibbled grass.

There can be nothing more
utterly dead than this,
this filigree of bone beneath
a sky flaking sleet,
and the three trees naked
on the crest of Pyatknowe.

Yet already the grass
loops strong pulling stitches
around its ribs, while a gowan
peeks a timid eye
through the empty socket
and the trees bud beads of blood.

2.
Three Days

For three days the wind raked the world with its
fists; and, while the compliant staggered and
stayed on its feet, the unbending shuddered
till it cracked and crumbled onto its knees.

A horde of horsemen rode across the sky,
so many it took three days for them to
pass. The earth trembled, dancing like clods in
a riddle; and the thunder of their hooves
struck sparks from the hilltops and the lash of
their rain raised welts on our heads and shoulders.

On the third day the storm subsided, and
the birch trees sprang and sang silver in the
sunlight; the gorse swelled green with a plumpness
of bud and the corn grew lush in the fields.

And we looked upon the world and saw that
it was good – we were alive, my wife’s hands
lay clasped content across her belly, and
my two boys ran the hill on sturdy limbs -
never minding that our roof-tree lay snapped
and splintered on a broken back of stones.

3.
Ecce Homo
(efter the windae in St Isadore’s Church, Biggar, bae Roland Mitton)

Frae wuids an fields gaithert in sheuchs o the hills
the fairmer steps in tae an unbroken laun,
e’s neck loupit roon wi a bicker o seed,
twa dugs tirlin tales ’neath the soop o e’s haun.

Abin e’s stoup’t shoothers the hills heeze a sang
tae a blaewort-fu lift an the smirr o the sun;
yet naither a look nor a thocht daes e cast
tae the hairvest ahint that e’s labour haes won.

Fur e’s darg lies afore him, the stent o e’s braith
maun be skailt makin halie the scabbit an mise;
sae ay e steps in tae the furthwart o times,
sawin seeds o e’s speerit tae mak the deid rise.

© Andrew McCallum

Andrew McCallum is a member of Biggar Writers' Group. He has just had a poem awarded as runner up in a competition run jointly by the National Galleries of Scotland , the English-Speaking Union and the Scottish Poetry Library, in association with the Scotsman newspaper. See our Noticeboard for further details.