George MacKay Brown
That boat has killed three people. Building her
Sib drove a nail through his thumb, and died up by
Bunged to the eyes with rust and penicillin.
One evening when the Bring was a bar of silver
Under the moon, and Mansie and Tom with wands
Were putting a spell on cuithes, she dipped a bow
And invited Mansie, his pipe still in his teeth,
To meet the cold green angels. They hauled her up
Among the rocks, right in the path of Angus,
Whose neck, rigid with pints rom the Doundy market,
Snapped like a barley stalk...There she lies.
A leprous unlucky bitch, in the quarry of Moan.
Tinkers, going past, make the sign of the cross.