Me To You - Alastair Reid

Probably the best-known Scottish literary figure alive outside Scotland, Alastair Reid (1926 -  ) moves easily between essays, translations (Neruda, in particular), poetry, children's books, and articles for The New Yorker.  While he's lived outside Scotland for much of his adult life, there is something - to me - very Scottish in his writing: a sober yet wistful tone that never gets maudlin but acknowledges both the beauty and hardness of life there, a Gaelic version of stoicism.  (Or, I am just projecting from first-hand observations of the Scottish character over three decades of regular trips!)   This poem has those elements, coming close (on one level) to evoking that Brazilian sensation of "saudade", a word without an English equivalent, that I once described as ".... a longing, not just for one's own home and family, but for the vibrancy, the soul and heart of a place and culture....".
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Me To You

Summer’s gone brown, and, with it,

our wanderings in the shires, our ways.

Look at us now.

A shuttered house drips in Moroccan rain.

A mill sits ghostly in the green of France.

Beaches are empty now of all but pebbles.

But still, at crossroads, in seignorial gardens,

we meet, sleep, wrangle, part, meet, part,

making  a lodging of the heart.

Now that the sea begins to dull with winter,

and I so far, and you so far

(and home farther than either),

write me a long letter,

as if from home.

                           Tell me about the snowfalls

at night, and tell me how we’d sit in firelight,

hearing dogs huff in sleep, hearing the geese

hiss in the barn, hearing the horse clop home.

Say how the waterfall sounds, and how the weeds

trail in the slithering river.

Write me about the weather.

Perhaps

a letter across water,

something like this, but better,

would almost takes us strangely

closer to home.

Write, and I’ll come.

                                                                    Alastair Reid -  Scottish

Strawberries - E. Morgan

Considering the place that Scotland holds in my heart, it would be a surprise if a Scottish poet was not represented.  But -surprise - it's NOT Robert Burns, at least not yet.  While Burns is considered by Scots to be Scotland's greatest poet ever, the poem below is by someone considered to be Scotland's greatest living poet.  The poem needs no introduction.  (This time, "clicking" on his name at the end will take you to his official website - since he was born in 1920, I have a feeling that someone other than him put it together!)
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Strawberries

There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open French window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memjory
lean back again
let me love you
let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lighting
on the Kilpatrick hills

let the storm wash the plates

                                                                           Edwin Morgan - Scottish