Peat reek had wavered lazily all day
above the fold. Inside, the skittering beasts,
plucked from their secret places on the moor,
rasping their plaintive cries to the open sky,
jostled and heaved. Now from the terry pot
an acrid stink arose of pitch and smoke.
It caught our breath, and drowned the lively banter
of ruddy bothy boys and country talk.
Open the switch-gate! The first struggling sheep,
by strong hands guided, trembled on the stand.
Up from his gurgling pot the brander raised
the iron. A flick of wrist, a scorching puff,
and on each flank the G for Gorthleck blazed.
A solemn sign to whom it might concern.
above the fold. Inside, the skittering beasts,
plucked from their secret places on the moor,
rasping their plaintive cries to the open sky,
jostled and heaved. Now from the terry pot
an acrid stink arose of pitch and smoke.
It caught our breath, and drowned the lively banter
of ruddy bothy boys and country talk.
Open the switch-gate! The first struggling sheep,
by strong hands guided, trembled on the stand.
Up from his gurgling pot the brander raised
the iron. A flick of wrist, a scorching puff,
and on each flank the G for Gorthleck blazed.
A solemn sign to whom it might concern.
Adrift once more, they scurried down the hill
and with some little philosophic shakes
resumed their ways, to disappear, at length,
in the immensity of sky and moor.
and with some little philosophic shakes
resumed their ways, to disappear, at length,
in the immensity of sky and moor.
I, too, have wandered far away since then,
following the little sheep tracks leading nowhere,
chasing the dragonflies and falling hard
on the steep places. Sick at heart, in dream,
I climbed the hill again. How steep it seemed.
The old Scots pine my guide, I found the walls,
and stood forlorn. Only the soft wind sighed
the old familiar moorland fragrances.
I lay down desolate. Oh God, said I,
Why did I not get branded with the G
that day? I searched the moorland sky. White clouds
moved flock-like on the wide blue canopy.
And in my dream the brander answered me.
Nae fear for you, lassie! Lassie, see His palm.
Your name was there or ever you were born.
following the little sheep tracks leading nowhere,
chasing the dragonflies and falling hard
on the steep places. Sick at heart, in dream,
I climbed the hill again. How steep it seemed.
The old Scots pine my guide, I found the walls,
and stood forlorn. Only the soft wind sighed
the old familiar moorland fragrances.
I lay down desolate. Oh God, said I,
Why did I not get branded with the G
that day? I searched the moorland sky. White clouds
moved flock-like on the wide blue canopy.
And in my dream the brander answered me.
Nae fear for you, lassie! Lassie, see His palm.
Your name was there or ever you were born.
© Mairi Ashby / The Ashby Family
