Daith o Saint Andrew
The siller moonlicht straiks ower
this boorach o neds that jumped me,
hellbent oan ma daith. Ah feel the reek
o nicotine an mingin bodies.
There’s Auld Bawheid, gowpin lik a trout;
an Wee Yin bummin' awa at me an speirin:
Haw, Andra, whaur’s yer God noo?
Naething lik bein stark deid, is there, pal?
Thir’s a hale tsunami o fowk soomin towards me:
some wifies are staunin lik bubblyjocks at Christmas.
But wan lassie is hunkered doon oan a cauld stane
in the clarty watter unner ma feet,
luikin glaikit an disjaskit, as if she’s hud a lugfu
o Sunday sermons. Here’s nae place fur a lassie.
Whit are they daein here?
Is there naething oan telly?
Or is the Net doon oan thir computers?
Ocht, wid ye luik at thir een poppin oot thir heids,
ettlin fur a wee swatch o me hingin here?
This wisnae whit Ah’d planned
when Ah tuik me career break fae fishin.
Ah shuldnae huv listened tae aw that patter
aboot fishin fur men – whit a load o guff!
Insteid o hingin here by a threid,
raxed oot lik an Arbroath smokie
an flung ower a saltire.
Thir’s nae rest fur the wicked!
An Ah’m gey feart an dinnae ken
whaur Ah’ll be the morra.
Frances Robson, in Lallans 75 (Yuil 2009)
Additional publication:
This poem was broadcast first on the Forth Two Sunday programme: “View From Earth”. |