My Land
by Sheila Templeton
Plays meltin slow airs oan the fiddle. Gars me greet.
Struts like naebody else. The kilt wis invented for struttin.
And struts darkly wi white gloves and orange sashes.
Has lochs lyin aboot Ayrshire like sma cups
o watter held in ribbed broon corduroy hills.
And licht sillered ower the Firth o Clyde
ice skimmings in simmer time, wrinkled
like a saucer o new jam pushed wi a finger
tae test for setting.
Leaves sic a sweetness oan my tongue
of dusk pink clover sookit dry each simmer.
And minds the sharp smell o blackened neepie lantern
chipped awa sae patiently, my faither sitting by the Tilly lamp.
Draws skeins o geese tae wild grey lochs,
arrowing oor Northern winter skies.
Has a squint smile, no brimmin wi confidence,
tho teems wi heroes, sung and unsung.
Can niver say ŒI love you¹, but hugs me,
awkward and fierce. Gies me a bosie.