George Mackay Brown Ash Wednesday Remember, man, that thou art dust. The earl kneels, the ash of the end is written on his brow. A captain of ships kneels, to be put in mind of a death in a far port, or at home, or on a rock of the sea. And the boy that holds cinders for the priest, His forehead is smeared, Who wears a coat of fourteen Aprils. The lady of Paplay Thinks, most mornings, she will live forever; kneeling now Is touched with the grave-stoor. The ploughman folds sun-grained hands, He tilts his face To the dust drained of warmth and light. Fisherman, the spindrift Will wash the ashes from you tomorrow. Still you remember, between two waves, St Peter and the fire of his denials. And the old bishop, “I know this, One God-ground deed or thought Endures, when the circle of diamond-and-gold on my finger is dust.” In the kirk of Magnus Stood a multitude of islanders, death-farers, that day, Hungry, after, for panis angelicus. And unto dust thou shalt return.

George Mackay Brown Ash Wednesday Remember, man, that thou art dust. The earl kneels, the ash of the end is written on his brow. A captain of ships kneels, to be put in mind of a death in a far port, or at home, or on a rock of the sea. And the boy that holds cinders for the priest, His forehead is smeared, Who wears a coat of fourteen Aprils. The lady of Paplay Thinks, most mornings, she will live forever; kneeling now Is touched with the grave-stoor. The ploughman folds sun-grained hands, He tilts his face To the dust drained of warmth and light. Fisherman, the spindrift Will wash the ashes from you tomorrow. Still you remember, between two waves, St Peter and the fire of his denials. And the old bishop, “I know this, One God-ground deed or thought Endures, when the circle of diamond-and-gold on my finger is dust.” In the kirk of Magnus Stood a multitude of islanders, death-farers, that day, Hungry, after, for panis angelicus. And unto dust thou shalt return.