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Sàilean, bhiorachan, a’toirt gliong
air na-clachan- mhuila
Fo drochaid dorcha, iarainn
air taobh an Seine, a’ Bhltabha,
an Danub donn, còinneachail
Nebha dubh, gleansach.
Cracaireachd is gàire
Cruinnichidh air na sràidean
Fad na h-oidhcheannan geala
aig Petersburg
Cafaidhean òraich ann am
Budapest
‘s Alba fhuar, fhliuch,
Ghleansach le ola
Streap, slaodadh
Leantainn ris am balla an iar-
thuath.
An urrainn fear-sam- bith
a bhith gam cluinntinn?
A bheil cuideigin deònach
Leigeil dhomh a-steach?Scotland into Europe

Court shoes clacking
on cobblestones
Under a dark iron bridge
by the Seine, the Vltava
the brown mossy Danube

the glistening black Neva.
Crack and laughter
gathering in the streets
In the white nights of Petersburg
The golden cafes of Budapest.
And Scotland, cold, wet,
gleaming with oil
trauchling out and up
clinging precariously to the north-
west wall.
Can anybody hear?
Will somebody let me in?

Mary McCabe
(pub. Chapman No 100/101 – 2002)