SCOTLAND SMALL? (poem by Hugh MacDiarmid) Scotland small? Our multiform, our infinite Scotland small? Only as a patch of hillside may be a cliché corner To a fool who cries 'Nothing but heather!' where in September another Sitting there and resting and gazing round Sees not only the heather but blaeberries With bright green leaves and leaves already turned scarlet, Hiding ripe blue berries; and amongst the sage-green leaves Of the bog-myrtle the golden flowers of the tormentil shining; And on the small bare places, where the little Blackface sheep Found grazing, milkworts blue as summer skies; And down in neglected peat-hags, not worked Within living memory, sphagnum moss in pastel shades Of yellow, green, and pink; sundew and butterwort Waiting with wide-open sticky leaves for their tiny winged prey; And nodding harebells vying in their colour With the blue butterflies that poise themselves delicately upon them, And stunted rowans with harsh dry leaves of glorious colour. 'Nothing but heather!' – How marvellously descriptive! And incomplete!
|