This strange little poem, which I wrote about 25 years ago, was a reflection of things which I had witnessed whilst helping my brother to deal with sheep gathering at Cunningsburgh.
Perhaps it's just my idea of the Shetland crofter, but I'm sure that other Shetlanders, if they read this, will see something very real about it.
Additionally, this is one of the poems I've written which has appeared in the strangest place. On a French website about poetry, between a poem by Christine De Luca and one by Edgar Alan Poe.
Mindin A Face
Some times whin I look at a face in a crood
I tink, feth I ken him, or at least I shöd,
a’ll no mind da name, or whit pairt he's fae,
meybe fae Mossbank, or Vidlin, or Brae.
Bit mindin faces is a winderfil art,
an da Shetlan crofter’s da man fir dis pairt.
He can staand at da crö an tell at a glance,
wha owns a hug, wi his look or his stance.
“Yea yun een is Rasmies”, he’ll declare wi glee,
“He’s ower little wirt ta belang ta me”,
an, "Yun lamb ower yunder belangs ta da Knowe"
"Hit has a face laek a weel ridden sow”.
Bit dis art o da croftir can geeng a bit gly,
whin greed taks ower, du kens da wye.
For as shön as he sees a guid looking lamb,
hye shouts, “Sees du dat boy, da face o wir ram”.