Scotland Small?

Scotland small? Our multiform, our infinite Scotland small?

Only as a patch of hillside may be a cliché corner

To a fool who cries ‘Nothing but heather!’ where in September another

Sitting there and resting and gazing round

Sees not only heather but blaeberries

With bright green leaves and leaves already turned scarlet

Hiding ripe blue berries; and amongst the sage green leaves

Of the bog-myrtle the golden flowers of the tormentil shining;

And on the small bare places, where the Blackface sheep

Found grazing, milkworts blue as summer skies;

And down in neglected peat hags, not worked

Within living memory, sphagnum moss in pastel shades

Of yellow, green, and pink; sundew and butterwort

Waiting with wide-open sticky leaves for their tiny winged prey;

And nodding harebells vying in their colour

With the blue butterflies that poise themselves delicately upon them;

And stunted rowans with harsh dry leaves of glorious colour.

‘Nothing but heather’ – How marvellously descriptive! And incomplete!

 

Hugh MacDiarmid

Done