Goodall, Phyllis
Cyrus faa telt his stories roon the fire
Fin winter win wis fusslin roon the waas,
An weeman cam snaa-covert fae the byre
Far they hid milket kye warm in their staas;
The kin o winter nicht fan deep snaa faas,
On sic a nicht the stories Cyrus spun
Cwid tak ye fae caal dark til simmer sun.
Or maybe til a darker darkness yet,
Faar murky craiturs keepit their abode,
Sic things faar-on sun never rose nor set,
Sic things nae mouze ti meet on darknin road,
Sic things as gyang far mortals never trod;
Bit Cyrus spak aboot them quert an sure
He kent against the gweed they hid nae pooer.
An noo his fire is oot. Caal ess lies grey
Faar eence the peats an cracklin wid brunt reid;
The hamely room is driech an teem the day,
The bunch o daisies in the blue vase deid;
An roon ma hert there hings a heavy dreed
That Cyrus we will never see again
An far he is nae mortal man may ken.
Cyrus that wi the soople skeely hans
Cwid wield an aixe or set a broken bane,
In oor o dark disaster draw yer plans
O foo ti sort the trouble, start again;
Naethin aboot repairs he didna ken,
Aye hid the eesfu thing that some-ane nott,
There wis nae neebor's need that he forgot.
Cyrus cud takk oor fears an wirst nichtmares
An spin them intae stories far they tint
Their awsome pooers tae faze an full wi cares,
An roon the fires amang gweed friens ye kent
They warnae envoys fae the Ill Ane sent --
Only reminders o gweed left undeen.
Bit it's his stories that we miss the maist
That set ye on the road tae fair elflan,
An gid ye passport there as welcome guest
An lat ye mix wi aa thon fairy ban,
Merry as them withoot time's weary han,
An you cwid see the warl as it wid be
Gin twis fae age an pain an pairtin free.