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My love comes dressed in white
Lost light, dark down.
When comes the darkness and the dawn
Cannot be found
But night
My love comes dressed in white.

My love has wandered in the desert
Known the burning of relentless sand.
My love has wandered barefoot
Known the sullen sunken northern sun.
My proud-plumed phoenix love comes dressed in white
And blinds with the rainbow array of his knowing.

I have seen the darkness down.
I have seen the eyes of emptiness,
Shoulders falling, dripping slowly.
Steps slow, gaze turned to another place.

There are no answers there my love.

My love has seen the desert.
In his bowed neck I have seen the desert.
My love comes dressed in white
And slowly we pace the distance between
Three days ago and now.
Along this road words meet in
The small air between us
Regard each other
Circle, smell and measure each other.
My eyes alight, alight, on your wrist, your shoulder,
Your neck
No longer desert-bent but intent
On the small newness newborn before you.

My white love, lantern-like
Dark down. Light found.

Borderland

I was born of the Borderland.

The Borderland is a place which is not entirely one thing or another. It stands in a place topographically denominated Scotland, but isn’t entirely happy with this definition. It likes tartan but doesn’t entirely like the kilt. It likes the Scots tongue, but has its own variant.
Ask a Borderer “where are you from?” and they’ll tell you, “I’m from the Borders”.
Ask a Borderer “are you Scottish?” and they’ll tell you, “sort of, I’m a Borderer.”

I was born in a place which has many names: the UK, Great Britain, Scotland. But when you’re a Borderer you stand on a thin line which isn’t really any of these places. You aren’t really from there. Where are you from?

From here.

I was born of a man from a family stable and fixed in their unstable and uncertain border identity for centuries, and a woman born with vagabond feet. A year before my birth those vagabond feet were on the other side of the world. For many months they moved around the globe until they were stopped in their tracks by a Borderer. My Scottish Presbyterian mother with the vagabond feet gave birth to me in a hospital in Edinburgh and sang Jewish songs by an East European to keep the pain at bay.

I have inherited the borderland and the vagabond feet which now stay put, itching, in a place a few miles from an international border in a language which is not mine.

Speak your language, a friend asked me. I opened my mouth and nothing came out.

What language do you speak?

I don’t know.

I speak a border language between Scots and English, not entirely one thing or another. I speak English too, but it’s never the same. It’s never at the heart of things. I operate every day in a European language which is not mine and to which I am a guest. My children , the creatures I carried in me, speak that language. They don’t know my border half-and-half language. Sometimes I speak too much.

Hud yer wheest lass, and lend yer lug tae whit ithers hae tae say.

I get things wrong here. I struggle and I make mistakes. I go to where I came from and the language has moved on without me. I stand on the border of modern and obsolete language. I don’t speak anyone’s language anymore, my language got lost somewhere.

Never quite in the thick of things. Never quite one thing or another. Never quite just right. Always poised on the edge, almost, nearly, just about.

This is life in the Borderland. A privilege.