I got to them via the name of my road, Panmure Street,

Monifieth, which leads from the village north eastwards

Into flat country and golf courses until Carnoustie. The name

Panmure belongs here and comes from Pan Mawr, translated

 As “big hollow” from Pictish, a language related to Welsh. Wow!

I imagined a solitary Pict settling here with hens and cow

Giving his farm this name, but then realised that this was

Pictland and its population Picts, all of whose gobs

Spoke a Celtic language which had a p where Irish had

A q. For ploughing the fields in springtime they used the ard

A scratch plough, that scarred the soil, rather than turning

It over, requiring variations from the original line, running

At right angles over it, to open the soil for seed. It could be

Pulled by women, men, or oxen. In autumn you could see

Them working the sandy soil, steam rising from their effort,

Rallying their beasts as the frenzied seagulls dropped

Behind them, earning harvests of oats, wheat, and barley

Peas beans carrots turnips kale onions and leeks. Garlic

And other herbs they gathered wild. But this woman pulls

Up a plant called Skirret, discards the leaves and shakes off

The soil to find a bunch of white roots that are easy enough

To detach and place in a pan with a little butter over the fire,

To cook with herbs. Lifting the pan to the table she cries her

Children and her man to share this treat, fingers thrust in

The pan to pick a root and push it between lips first,

Then savour it with tongue, then split with teeth, sweet,

Earthy, with a smellof mushroom. It’s soon gone but hard to beat,   

They think, and smile and hug each other, once again made sure

It’s not so bad a life to be Picts in the fields of Panmure.