In the midst o naewhar,
oan a nairrie road
through a lanesome muir,
a brig, abin a burn.

The brig cares nocht
aboot whar ye’ve bin,
nor whar yer gan,
it’s jist a crossin,

stane faced, solid,
takin ye fae yin side
tae the other,
askin fir nithin.

Aa stop haaf wey,
takin time tae gaither.
Afore me the muir, the sky,
the lang road hame.


In the midst of nowhere,
on a narrow road
through a lonely moor,
a bridge, above a burn.

The bridge cares nothing
about where you’ve been,
nor where you’re going,
it’s just a crossing,

stone faced, solid,
taking you from one side
to the other,
asking for nothing.

I stop half way,
taking time to gather.
Before me the moor, the sky,
the long road home.

5 thoughts on “Brig

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