Just now and then I actually reflect sensibly on Shetland.
The following little verse was written after a walk on one of those rare Shetland evenings when everything was just PERFECT.
The sentiments in this verse, that fine weather is rare, could be better explained by the old story about an American tourist who asked a crofter, "Say bud, when does summer come to these parts?". The old crofter scratched his head, then replied, "Weel, last year we held it upö a Tuesday".
Hit's no mony days dis wadder comes,
see da reek rise strait fae aa da lums.
If du staands a start i da still saft air,
du'll hear da laebrack just ower dere.
Hear da drummie-bees on dir busy roond,
an da lichtsome trill o da laevriks soond
Da yalls o da bairns oot ower on da hill,
an da hark o da water trow da mill.
As da hömin draws near, an da sun sinks wast,
hit pents da lift wi a reddish cast.
I winder if hit'll be da sam da moarn,
an I tank da loard I wis Shaetlan born.