Gort (ivy)
| cha b'e murt a bh'air d'aire, cha b'e muchadh, cha b'impireachd, nuair a ghabh thu greim teann ait taigh, air drochaid, creag no craobh, ach d'fheum airson na h-aile ruigheachd, anail gorm na greine, 's do dhuileach mar shaighdean beo is deonach airson leigheas do gach galair seice's mionach, 's na do raithe fleadh do bheach is speach a' sugh do bhlathan, is meas do lionad na chuirm do ghobhlan-gaoithe 's smeorach, chan fhaicear dreathen na do chuiltean, righ beag brodachail nan ian ach cleoc thu, do gach deargan 's dion 'n a luchairt, do gach righ |
murder was not your intention nor asphyxiation, it was no imperialism when you wrapped a tight grip around house, bridge, rock or tree, but your need to reach the air, the sun's green breath, your leaves like living arrowheads eager to be healing every malady of skin and gut, and in your season wasp and bee feast on your blossom's nectar, while your berries' fullness makes banquet for thrush and swallow, nor can the wren be spotted in your shadows, haughty little king of birds but you're a cloak, to every flea and in his secure palace, to every king |
| poem by aonghas macneacail | |