Awa out tae the aald víllage o a hairst’s eve.
A dae this nou an again.
Suhin yont ma ken
Taks a haul ma legs an A’m wheech’t awa.
Sax o cloack o a Sunday, nichts drawin in, ken it’s a
Wilsome time – nae buses, nae mínister, hings gang asteir.
Peewits affa late tae their beds the nicht.
Mosside. Aye there’s aye a glint o wuid smoke ower yon brae. Maks me feel hamelike. Gars me feel the past.
The road efter’s affa desolate.
Fan the sun’s up there’s kye. Sun doun, da ken.
It’s about a quarter o the hour efter Mosside, A hink suhin’s out the ordinar.
Lichts ahint me, fower or five.
Maun be fowk wi torches an at.
But as A pass eh Lour Road A scance ower ma shouder.
Ca mak out ocht, nae shape nor silhouette.
Fit wye wuid fowk wi torches hae nae bodies?
Owercome wi curiositie, A gang a wee bittie closer.
An it’s like thay wauk in unison, awa frae ’z.
Nae purpose nae destinatioun, thaim an nou masel.
A ghaist, it disna staun fir man nor wife
Nor mínister.
A ghaist’s na HEFTIT wi a bodie.
But as such thay maun bide awa frae fowk.
But fit dae thay see in me? Thairsels?
Can A be unheftit?
Fan a bodie’s stole awa wi th’ ghaists, fit else is stole awa?
Fit like wuid it be, nae heftit wi bodies ava?
I head over the brae through Caddam and the lights all subside.
There is no evil, ever begot, while I’m walking by my saviour’s side.
– Saoirse MCINTEE