A shuttle of sounds

At the time folk named the north end of Eden
a mouthful of sounds gave a frame to the land:
every inlet, every hillock a word picture in Norn1.

They had baskets of words for the work of the crofter
sounds of the sheepfold, the yard and the hill:
some lost on the wind with the winnow of years.

And a chest-full of sounds for all kinds of sea work
with a secret place for words of good luck
stowed far from our hearing to keep harm away2.

The Norn is long gone, but it’s left an aftertaste
that flavours a tongue that can sustain anyone
can wrap up our feelings, unravel our thoughts.

For every stroke of work still a throng of word patterns
like a Fair Isle sweater, a working man’s shirt –
made to be worn, not laid up for best.

We must savour our words as they spin on the tongue
lik snorie-ben3, sneester4 and skaddyman’s heid5
word playthings for everyone, not just for kids.

For they make the warp in a pattern of living, while
the weft comes from places beyond the Sooth Mooth6 .
They can blend in the weave with our shuttle of sounds.

The garb of our language is put together
in a way that makes room for the new and the old:
both pipeline and peat-bank; rap artist and skald.


1Norn: original language of Shetland, of the Norse family of languages
 2sea words were secret to retain their potency
3snorie-ben: toy made from bone and string, twisted to make a snoring sound
4sneester:private chuckle
5skaddyman’s heid: sea urchin
6‘Sooth Mooth’ is not just the physical entrance to Shetland, but also a description of English and Scots speakers (‘Sooth Moothers’)

A shuttle o soonds

At da time at folk namit da nort end o Eden
a moothfoo o soonds gied frame tae da land:
every bicht, every knowe a wird pictir in Norn.

Dey hed böddies o wirds for da varg o da crofter,
soonds o da crö, da crub an da hill: some lost
on da wind owre da flakki o years.

An a kyist-foo o soonds for aa kinds o sea wark
wi a hoidy-hol for queer luckin wirds
stowed far fae wir hearin ta keep herm awa.

Da Norn is lang gien, but hit’s left a waageng
at keetchins a tongue at can hadd ony haert
can rowe up wir feelings, unreffel wir tochts.

For every haand’s turn still a mird o wird patterns
lik an allover gansey, a wirkin man’s sark –
med ta be worn, no laid up for best.

We man savour wir wirds as dey tirl on da tongue
lik snorie-ben, sneester an skaddyman’s heid
wird laalies fur aabody, no jöst fur bairns.

Fur dey mak da warp in a pattern o livin, while
da weft comes fae places ootbye da Sooth Mooth.
Dey can blend i da waeve wi wir shuttle o soonds.

Da garb o wir language is pitten dagidder
in a wye at maks room fur da new an da auld:
baith pipeline an paet-bank; rap artist an skald.