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Geodha Air Chul Na Greine	A Geo In The Sun's Shelter
Tha fèath air a' bhàgh a-nochd, 's an sruth dol thar na maoile, cobhar air a' chreig bhàite, is falpanaich air stalla, gàig an tonn tha fad às, is siubhal than aig na cuantan, ach tha 'n cuan tha so 'na thamh gun bhàt' aig cala, far na chladhaich e linne rèidh le an-shocair nan làithean, geodha air chùl na grèine, 's a mhol gun ghrùid, far an rachadh bliadhnachan geal na gealaich seachad siar air, air chuthach, gun iaradh, a' sireadh ceann-uidhe gun ùidh. Thrèig am bradan an cuan ann an linn a' bhàigh chiùin so, a' lorg na h-aibhne òig ud, 's nan gluaiste clach reubadh beithir airgeadach beò a' ghliocais 's an eòlais uisgeachan balbha criostail nan sgarbh 's nan lach. Tha leac an so air an tràigh far am biodh na mnathan a' feitheamh nan eathraichean beaga iasgaich nuair thigeadh sian; is tric a bha ulaidh a' chridhe is ulaidh a' chuain às an aonais, is a gheibheadh iad blas dearg a' bhradain searbh air am bial. Gu tric 'nan seasamh a' coimhead na mara far na chailleadh an cuid, Is 'nan suidh arms na tighean san d'fhuair an daoine bàs, an do rinn iad bàgh air an rachadh an iargain Is an cifùradh seachad, Is am fuiricheadh friamh an duilisg luraich an sàs. Ach ged bheireadh miann an duilisg duine a thaobh car ùine, tha 'm bradan lainnireach sint' fo shàmhchar dorch, is ma bheir mi an sgobadh sin air an àit sam bi e bidh maistreadh fairg ann, is cearcaill sith 'na lorg.	There is peace in the bay tonight, and the tide swings past the headland; foam on the hidden rock, wave-lapping at the cliff, the distant wave cries, and the seas go coursing swiftly, but this sea is at rest, with no boat at harbour, where it dug out a quiet pool with the un-ease of days past, a geo in the sun's shelter, its pebbles unstained, where the white years of the moon might pass beyond it, lunatic, unresting, desirelessly seeking a haven. The salmon left the sea when this quiet bay was made, seeking the fresh river - if one moved a stone the quicksilver lightning-flash of wisdom and knowledge would tear the still crystal water of the ducks and the scarts. At a rock here on the shore the women awaited the return of the small fishing-boats in storm; often losing treasure of sea and treasure of bosom, and feeling the red taste of the salmon salt on their lips. Often standing watching the sea where their share was lost, and sitting in houses where their kin had died, did they make a bay that longing and hurting could by-pass, where the root of the darling dulse could keep its hold. Though desire for dulse might for a time entice one, the shining salmon lies in dark repose, and if I quickly thrust where he lies hidden, the water, churned, will leave its rings of peace.
Ruaraidh MacThòmas	Derick Thomson

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