The thirty-nine on this pillar sae fine,
Quarried here and knarn to them
Will watch fine sunsets every day
And laugh the last tear away hyem.
From the whisper of the Breamish burn
To the lonely Cheviot hills,
In the rustling of the Autumn leaves,
How a deeper richness fills
This valley now, with memories
For them, may sweet flewers graa,
And where once lived pain,
May life bloom again,
And that pain, may we never knar.
James Tait, Sep 2018