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Wi Thur Twa Rings

Yeese are chippit new
intae the auld stane o time.

Here, awthing faws quate fur yeese,
here noo, sunlicht skirls,
rain diddles, the yirth birls.

Yeese are no alane
amang the hurlin constellations
but cleikit tae thon gird cried love.

Aulder than ony circle o staunin stanes,
shair as a snaw-ring roon the mune,
mairrige is.

Weer yer vows weel when kecklin
is the ale atween yeese

or when nicht draps like a bolster
doon the middle o yer bed.

Let the cauld shooder o the ben
aywis coorie ye kindly.
Let the sun aywis hunt ye
hooever daurk yon place.

We wha haud oor wheesht ken
thorns hae roses.

And when ye gang fae this day
the skinklin staurs gang wi ye.

When ye gang furrit fae this day,
the love that grew ye
growes wi ye

and mairrige is wrocht,
iron oan stane, haund in haund.

Janet Paisley

wi_thur_twa_rings.txt · Last modified: 2013/06/16 14:22 (external edit)