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.
