POEM OF THE DAY

You can feel the indignation fuelling the question! But instead of a diatribe against the ignorant, Hugh Macdiarmid offers a lovely appreciation of the flowers and denizens of his country. His masterpiece in four lines acts as a coda.

SCOTLAND SMALL?

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 around

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!

THE LITTLE WHITE ROSE

The rose of all the world is not for me.

I want for my part

Only the little white rose of Scotland That smells sharp and sweet – and breaks the heart.