And whiles, hunkert on the strand, we catched eels,
cauld fingers ploitert in broon gritty sludge
or they heaved up a hefty dreepin lump
that dreebilt throu spaces till nocht wis left
save a puckle buitlaces come alive,
there a blink in a sma brine pool
syne gane, oor hauns tuim but seasoned wi sea,
sleekit wi the weet and bricht i the sun.

We never held them, the eels werena made
for that. We didna haud the sea either,
come til it, or the brichtness the water
and the licht gied tae oor skin a moment.
Only the saut bade, an’ we licked it aff
on the wey hame, yon tinge o sea, a strange
pang on the tongue that whiles comes back: a taste
o whit we were. That wis catched. That we haud.

Raymond Vettese

Chosen by the Scottish Poetry Library