The Gaelic Poetry Nook will present poetry both in English and Gaelic.

Cisteachan-Laighe	Coffins
Duin' àrd, tana 's fiasag bheag air, 's locair 'na làimh: gach uair theid mi seachad air bùth-shaoirsneachd sa' bhaile, 's a thig gu mo chuimhne faileadh na min-sàibh, thig gu mo chuimhne cuimhne an àit ud, le na cisteachan-laighe, na h- ùird 's na tairgean, na saibh 's na sgeilbean, is mo sheanair crom, is sliseag bho shliseag ga locradh bho'n bhòrd thana lom. Mus robh fhios agam dè bh' arm bàs; beachd, bloigh fios, boillsgeadh de'n dorchadas, fathann de'n t-sàmhchair. 'S nuair a sheas mi aig uaigh, là fuar Earraich, cha dainig smuain thugam air na cisteachan-laighe a rinn esan do chàch: 'sann a bha mi 'g iarraidh dhachaidh, far am biodh còmhradh, is tea, is blàths. Is anns an sgoil eile cuideachd, san robh saoir na h-inntinn a' locradh, cha tug mi 'n aire do na cisteachan-laighe, ged a bha iad 'nan suidhe mun cuairt orm; cha do dh' aithnich mi 'm brèid Beurla, an liomh Gallda bha dol air an fhiodh, cha do leugh mi na facail air a' phràis, cha do thuig mi gu robh mo chinneadh a' dol bàs. Gus an dainig gaoth fhuar an Earraich-sa a locradh a' chridhe; gus na dh' fhairich mi na tairgean a' dol tromham, 's cha shlànaich tea no còmhradh an cràdh.	A tall thin man with a short beard, and a plane in his hand: whenever I pass a joiner's shop in the city, and the scent of sawdust comes to my mind, memories return of that place, with the coffins, the hammers and nails, saws and chisels, and my grandfather, bent, planing shavings from a thin, bare plank. Before I knew what death was; or had any notion, a glimmering of the darkness, a whisper of the stillness. And when I stood at his grave, on a cold Spring day, not a thought came to me of the coffins he made for others: I merely wanted home where there would be talk, and tea, and warmth. And in the other school also, where the joiners of the mind were planing, I never noticed the coffins, though they were sitting all round me; I did not recognise the English braid, the Lowland varnish being applied to the wood, I did not read the words on the brass, I did not understand that my race was dying. Until the cold wind of this Spring came to plane the heart; until I felt the nails piercing me, and neither tea nor talk will heal the pain.
Ruaraidh MacThòmais	Derick Thomson

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