Document 571

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Author(s): Janet Paisley

Copyright holder(s): Janet Paisley

It's early moarnin an the mist's risin aff the gress, hingin ablow the trees like a curtin fae thur branches. It suits me. Ah'm no in masell. A coo lous wi burth pain faur doon the holla. A wey aff fae cauvin, bit kennin it. Ma feet ur sodden yit thurs nae mindin in me. Mibbe the harr is passin through me tae.

Only the shoatgun is soalid. Heaviur, greyur, cauldur. Soalid, richt enough. It cairryin me. Cairryin me doon the field, ower the burn's ruckled stanes, through its white watter an up by the mill.

Thurs nae a sowl aboot an ah leuk back tae see a licht cum oan in yin hoose. Rab Coannell gittin up fur the post. Ah keep ahint the mill, doon tae the coattages. The weeds ur high here an thur wetness wid tie thum roon me. Ye jist keep shuvin.

Ootside his hoose thurs nae back gairden. Jist the wildness an the wet. Close tae the stanes huv the braith o the wurld oan thum. A licht goes oan it ma shouder, dull yella. Watter rins, tinny, intae a kettle. Thur is whustlin. Saft, nae tune, mind elsewhaur whustlin. Ah dinnae waant these meenuts o his day. The waashin. The tea made, drunk. Ah waant the slammin o his door. Feet oan his graivel path. The key in his gairidge padloak. Ah waant the leuk oan his face is he turns roon.

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