Sheena Leith

Sheena Leith was raised in the North East from whence she travelled and taught abroad for many years. She has written poetry most of her adult life, but has concentrated more on it since she retired from full-time teaching.

Poems

A THOCHT

'At maun gie ye a sair heid.
Stracht up throu' tar.
Wis there ony need?

The saft grun's nae far.
A bittie tae the left or richt
Ye'd o' won easier oot tae day licht.

Life grows fae far it is
an sae it maun.
A body tholes the sair heid
as best he can!

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THERE'S BENNACHIE

There's Bennachie we say.
And we know what we mean.
A landmark; a focal point
you offer the reassurance of familiarity
to those who set their stooks
or draw the furrow straight,
with an eye on Bennachie.

And those who pitted the stubby legs of infancy
against your sides, can find you yet.
Distilled images
woven with childhood's vigour
into our own mythology.

Yes, there's Bennachie.
We know where we are.
And with a foot on such firm ground
we dare to mock at our own uncertainty.
For even when we peer beyond gnarled heather roots,
chasing elusive history,
we know we’ve made a mountain out of you, Bennachie.

Seeking our own identity?

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COUNTRY LOON

It wisnae easy for ony o's.

Wiks o' you losin' athing
an the threid o' maist things;
takin' aff oot the windae
across a ploo'd park
in a cauld December nicht.

It wisnae easy.

Dubby sheen tae clean
an you the loon, in fae the horse
speirin' for yir mither, an her deid lang seen.
Telt; yi not a fite sark
for the funeral.

Sine stunin' at the windae
pintin' oot the bonny rose
pluntit in March
for yir golden weddin'’.

It wisnae easy,
so ye wis hospitalized
in Aiberdeen.

Three wards later
an fowr fleer up
pyjama clad; keepit fae yir ither claes
fair forfochan in yir ain confusion
tryin' tae win oot throu' a haloperidol haze

"A'm absolutely tint," yi saes.

Bit I kint fine far yi wis, an' fit yi mint.

Yi wisnae a'thegither tint.

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