Meg Bateman

schottisches gälisch

Meg Bateman

englisch

Cìocharan

An glasadh an latha
tha thu ag òl gu dian,
do shùilean ag amharc bhuat
gun bhrìgh na duinne dhomh;
tha ùghdarras sa ghrèim
a th' aig do dhà làimh air a' chìch,
is d' òrdagan a' pronnadh mo bhlian
ri caismeachd dhìomhair.

Feasgar nì thu brìodal:
nì thu dinneadh air an t-sine
is nì thu gàire 's i ag èirigh,
nì thu caogadh ri Dad mun cuairt oirre
is briosgaid na do dhòrn...

Ach a dh'oidhche
cha chuilean meata thu -
cha tàlaidh pòg air do bhilean thu
no duanag ga cagairt na do chluais -
spìonaidh do chorragan mo ghùn
agus le raoic asad dhan dorchadas
agraidh tu do chòir mar bu dual.

© Meg Bateman

Breastling

In the grey of the dawn
you drink intently,
your eyes gaze ahead,
their brownness tells me nothing;
there is authority in the hold
of your two hands on the breast;
your toes knead my belly
to a rhythm of their own.

In the evenings you grow fond:
you press in the nipple
and laugh as it rises,
peeping round it at Dad
with a biscuit in your fist...

But at night
na tamed pup you -
no kiss on the lips can soothe you
or ditty whispered in your ear -
your fingers tear at my gown
as, roaring at the darkness,
you claim your hereditary right.

© Meg Bateman