Poetry Workshop II

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.

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