Bidh mi fileanta anns a ’Ghàidhlig.
Looking at the words: facal, fuar, and fliuch.
I should know them by now.
They still roll off the tongue as awkward as a stone,
Or peinneag, or is it onn?
A test that changed my life.
To zoom on my foundation.
Every time it rains, I feel a layer wash clean.
A bit of colonial grime goes down.
Eyes eft-see a forthshaft:
A way of being without stones weighing down.
A way of being cleansed of murders, of silences, of erasures.
A way of casting off dirt.
Yet, am I not tired of carrying my stones?
Am I not casting them off slowly?
Or, am I putting more on a door to squash any thought?
Any thought that may be ‘heresy’?
How to call on the buidsichean forgotten?
To free, to live, to breathe, and to stretch?
I light the fire to show the way.