In which Tree_and_Leaf is Not Safe in Bookshops, and a poetry spam

Hmph. Morning has thus far failed at being productive; having discovered I needed to get a friend a birthday present, er, about three days ago, and equally needing hay fever tablets, I sallied into the centre of town, only to discover that Boots wasn't open until 11; which necessitated a protracted hang about in Borders, which, well, I think the phrase is technically 'resulted in', rather than necessitated, spending more money on more books than planned. Ran into Incumbant, and exchanged gulilty glances over stacks of books; he said "You see, this is what happens when you come to a place like this, you have to spend all your time putting down books you've picked up," and I said, "It's putting them down that's the trick," - though I did manage not to splurge on Jim Butcher, so it could have been worse.

On the other hand, I did buy one of UA Fanthorpe's collections, and a nice little book of 100 Favourite Scottish Poems (not kailyaird, honest!) which, though sadly lacking in Buchan, has a good selection of obscure but good stuff, including some which was new to me:

Mary’s Song


I wad ha’e gi’en him my lips tae kiss,
Had I been his, had I been his;
Barley breid and elder wine,
Had I been his as he is mine.

The wanderin’ bee it seeks the rose;
Tae the lochan’s bosom the burnie goes;
The grey bird cries at evenin’s fa’,
‘My luve, my fair one, come awa’.’

My beloved sall ha’e this he’rt tae break,
Reid, reid wine and the barley cake;
A he’rt tae break, an’ a mou’ tae kiss,
Tho’ he be nae mine, as I am his.


Marion, Angus (1866-1946)

RELIJUS SUBTEXT IZ BAIRLY SUBTEXTUAL

( And, from the Exile's corner: )

( And, even more so: )

( However, let us not be sentimental, even about Scotland: so here is an excellent poem of political advice to our lords and masters at Holyrood (or anywhere else):  )

( And finally, as a warning to all academics inclined to take themselves too seriously (which is about 99%, and I count myself in the majority), a jolly exercise in quasi-Middle Scots  )

The Problem of Susan fic, finally finished

Title: And After Darkness, Light.
Fandom: The Chronicles of Narnia; immediately pre- and then post The Last Battle. Susan, Lucy, Aslan (sort of), OCs
Words: 7222
Warnings: Spoilers for The Last Battle, obviously. Character death as per canon (off stage); some fairly graphic violence (in the context of a dream, but still). The author thinks she has got everyone a plausible age, given that Lewis’ chronology is vague and he never really specifies how old anyone is (TLB has to be set after the nationalisation of the railways, in 1948, given Eustace's reference to 'British Railways'; LW&W could, as adaes pointed out, be set any where between 1939 and 1944; VOTD seems to be post war, but other than that, everything's up for grabs), so I have gone with what suited me best. Lots of theology, which is par for the course in this sort of fic.
Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright intended; not for profit; I don’t think I need to point out that I’m not C.S. Lewis. I’m not Julian of Norwich, either, though the Voice in the Dark is temporarily on loan from her. I doubt she’d mind, particularly as mediaeval people just wouldn’t get ‘intellectual property’ as a concept.

There is no wrath in God: Julian of Norwich.

( She dreamed, that night and for several nights after, of lions that pursued her endlessly through barren hills. )