The Clyack Shafe

By Sheila Templeton

Hame for his eeswal sax month leave

hine awa fae the bonnie hoose

reamin wi space, servans takkin tent,

sun-downers oan bougainvillea verandahs

– aathing he’d biggit up for himsel

waarlds awa fae far he’d stertit

– a vistin freen chanced tae say

Govalhill’s in sair need o a han wi his hairst.

Nae young, nae swack, but

Aye. I’ll be there the morn.

He’d nae idea his need wis sae fierce

his bleed dingin tae feel

the reeshle o skinklan corn

athort a lang-rigged park,

hard-nubbit siller-gowd

an stooks o hey lik roon breists

– aa the tyauve o a day’s lang darg

stiff shooders, oxters wringin weet

winnin tae the hinner-en, a hairst

weel-gaithert, the clyack-shafe,

seer again in his saa, his ain grun.

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