Dè a th’ann? Deich thar fhichead bliadhna o
chaidh sinn a’ campadh ann an Tolastadh ’s air
a’ Bhràighe: meanbh-chuileagan, fuachd an t-
samhraidh, sleeping bags, sliasaid ri sliasaid,
craiceann ri craiceann, fàileadh cùbhraidh
fiodh air an teine agus, seadh, bruadaran na h-
òige agus cinnt gun robh a h-uile càil fhathast
romhainn. Bruadaran: aig teampall Asclepius,
Dia an leigheis, ann an Trikala, bhiodh iad a’
dèanamh an adhraidh do Mnemosyne, màthair
nan ceòlraidhean, leis an dòchas gum biodh i
gad chuideachadh aisling sam bith a bh’agad
agus ann an sin a chuimhneachadh. ’S e
slànachadh a bhiodh ann an sin, ’s dòcha, ach
cha chreid mi g’ eil an ìomhaigh buileach
ìomchaidh an-dràsta ’s mi a’ feuchainn ri guth
mo bhàrdachd a thoirt nas fhàisge ri mo ghuth
àbhaisteach, ge bith dè a tha sin a’ ciallachadh,
dè seòrsa pasgan cèidse no cliabh a th’ann. Ach
tha e a’ faireachdainn cudromach dhomh nach
b’ iad caractaran mo chuimhn’ a-mhàin a bh’
anns an triùir againn a’ bleadraigeadh fon
ghealaich air an tràigh mar chràbhaichean as
dèidh na seirbhis, agus gur ann an dà-rìribh a
tha sinn an seo a-nochd, ann an taigh-bidh’ a’
coimhead ciaradh an fheasgair a’ muthadh cala
Steòrnabhaigh, fhathast na h-aon cleasan agus
obagan a bh’ againne riamh ri fhaicinn: do
theanga, agus thu a’ tarraing asainn, a’ tighinn
nas fhàide a-mach nad bheul na shaoillin ’s a
bhiodh comasach, agus thusa, do chorragan
glaiste mar mhullach theampaill, gàire bhragail
air d’aodann agus ceistean ro choileanta, ro
phearsanta an-còmhnaidh air do liopan. Tha e
doirbh a ràdh dè a tha thu ag ionndrainn gus
am bi e air do beulaibh, a’ suidhe timcheall
bòrd còmhla riut, aig ithe Yum Gai Yang, gach
facal mar shnàithlean tìm a’ ruith tro luchairt-
cuimhne. Duilich? Agus mis’, ciamar a tha mis’
faighinn air adhart? An d’fhuair mi toileachas
riamh? Dè am bruadar a bha agam air a’
Bhràighe? An e an triùir againn a bh’ann? Hut.
Deich thar fhichead bliadhna, tha thu ’g ràdh?
Friendship
What is it? Thirty years since we camped in
Tolsta and on the Bràighe: midges and the
summer cold, sleeping bags, thighs against
thighs, skin against skin, the smell of fenceposts
– stolen strainers – on the fire and, yes, those
were the dreams of youth and everything still in
front of us. Dreams. At the temple in Trikala to
Asclepius, the god of medicine, they also paid
worship to Mnemosyne, mother of the muses,
in the belief she could help you remember any
vision you had while sleeping there. That could
be a healing of sorts, but does not seem the
right register here, as I try to bring the voice of
my poetry closer to my speaking voice,
whatever that bundle, that creel might be,
because it feels important that those three
people blethering on the beach in the moonlight
like worshippers after a service are not just
inventions of my memory, and that we are really
all here tonight, in a restaurant watching the
dusk like incense smothering Stornoway
harbour, still with the same tics and habits we
ever had: your tongue when you’re taking the
piss coming further out of your mouth than is
surely possible; your fingers pressed together
like a temple roof, an impish smile on your face
as you ask too perfect, too personal questions.
It is hard to say what you have missed until it is
there, sitting round a table with you, eating Yum
Gai Yang, each word a thread of time leading
through a memory palace. Sorry? And me, how
am I getting on? Did I ever find happiness? What
was that dream on the Bràighe? Was it actually
us three? Hut. Thirty years ago, you say?