Beyont Mizzerment!
Speeshal folk – Deeside loons
The like weel nae see agin
Hunners of years auld, hunners.
Aye speeshal loons – beyont mizzerment!
The ancient Dallyfour lived
a hunner and twenty-sax year –
wud ye believe it?
An berit in Glenmuick
Wi the dates 1596 tae 1722 on his stane:
Betwixt his cradle an his grave
John Mitchell of Dallyfour
behelt saiven monarchs and twa kings
an the union o’ the Croons.
The ancient Dubrach lived
a hunner and ten year –
aye wud ye believe it?
He carrit Dumfoonert’s name – Peter;
And Granted Auchindryne.
Din-raisin wi’ Donald.
Tarbrax by the high road tae Forfar
Donald Mcpherson far fae Bovagli’s hamely braes.
Black bothies left ahind, aiver speerited in saicret. Aye!
Girnoc garrons twinty each – wi’ ankers twa abreast:
the toonkeeper wimmen left oot.
Speerits heich (tcaach ….fit a tirravee!)
Loshtie aye, dwam fou!
The-gaither, time-servin’ smugglers:
Donald Mcpherson – oor seerious scoondrel;
James Gordon – aiver richteous;
an’ John Gall – oonprencipilt mebbe,
yet surely mair of a dweem than a dwam:
loshtie aye!
Donald Mcpherson befuskert high on baith chaffs,
aye rugged cheekit – bricht red oondernaith.
Jorum at the ready the-gaither wi the Gordons: James an’ Peter
…. an nae doot, yit mair of that inextricable tribe!
Aye nae doot!
James Gordon an Abergeeldie loon – of sorts!!
Gamekeeper to David Gordon, Esquire of Abergeeldie.
Friend of genteelity maybe but
naiver to be mizzered in mainners:
Loshtie nae!
John Gall grand-maister o’ the bothies,
brither tae the Girnoc.
Sundoon at his Tarbrax sheilin –
a saicret tryst oonder yonder roddin-tree.
Feckless wi’ a fleerish:
Loshtie aye!
Twa gaugers biding their time,
hodden in-by the Tarbrex Tollbar:
Mr Tawse an’ Mr Rose, aiver-sae wullin in the law.
1824: Excisemen noo wi’ clout!
Aye Parliament had seen to that!
Dragoon guards hauled-in at the ready:
At the ready –oh loshtie aye!
Anither Gordon caa’d Peter, a Camlet loon,
rode auld ‘yella,’ sae many hans in hicht –
a strappin horse speeshal tae the Girnoc:
wi braith snortin’ ready,
yet his maister, Peter wis grippet wi’ doot.
Aye grippet.
The others,
‘to the number of nine or mair’
shared that nervishness –
but plied theirsels’ wi’ ther ain coontraband:
aye, fou an fleein’ tae loosen that fear!
Bit not oor Donald, fa he wis high-heedit,
an seemingly baithered by nout –
not aiven a fearsom rainstorm risen michty faist
wid brak his smugglers course!
Michty me he wis blin tae danger –
Michty aye!
Through the spleeter of weet,
an jist ootside the Tollbar,
Tawse an’ Rose, officers aff the Excise,
wi’ their troop aff ‘Dragoon Guards’
withoot warning, made tae apprehend –
but in-turn were veeshusly attacked themsels.
Veeshusly aye!
Donald McPherson ‘threatened tae
‘blow ther brains oot if they laid violent hands upon them’
an to run auld Tawse-the-Excise
‘throo the body wi’ a pitch fork’
by noo Donald wis joined by the Gordons who a’ the-gaither
started to throw ‘large stanes’
at roon-shoodert an’ wrunkelt Rose.
Aye nae sympathy wis extended
tae the hunchie-bacit an’ fastidious Rose
All this wis witnessed by a young loon
James Gordon age 6 years
His faither Peter, picked him up
an in a flash young James escaped on ‘yella’
back to the Gordons – bit not tae the Girnoc
fa’ that wisnae safe.
Michty No.
Sorrafu’ an wi’ ther tails atween ther legs,
brocht them tae Kincardine o’ Neil –
in the stable Inn –
‘130 gallons of illicit distilled spirits’ wir stacked up high
an horses wer’ at the ready for a second pairty ….
ye can imagine can’t ye – loshtie aye:
for they ‘were at the time takin’ refreshment.’
Takin refreshment – michty aye.
fit a stramash!
ye stramash an’ styterin fou!
An noo The Excise stepped fore:
an all were caught din-raisin.
Shamed Donald McPherson tak flit tae Angus
he never returned tae the Girnoc.
Soon aifter the Girnoc emptied like a quaich!
Ye see ther wis no choice in changin times.
Fitprints aff shame,
an the end of a way of life. Aye.
Din-raisin wi’ Donald.
Loshtie Aye!!
Kitty Rankin’s hairt beat
Aye Deeside fowk wir feart o’ Kate
she had that weasel way
an she was thocht tae be a witch.
Wan day Kate tak coonsel of Abergeeldy
the Laird wis cavorting or so
she saw – a weasel way ah richt!
Kate cast oot her spell, stirrin’ the soup,
an the Laird
wis droont.
Fowk kent a’ too weel it
wis Kate.
Fit a weasel way. Aye fit!
Poor Kate she was chained
in the ‘Geeldy cellar
– her hairt beat faster
an brocht oot intae the licht
she cooered doon.
Craig nam Ban stood afore her
and the stake a tap.
Her hairt beat faster
– in a ‘weasel way’.
Marched up the hill
her hairt beat faster.
Until the flames a’ licked her.
Aye Deeside fowk wir feart o Kate!
The Aultdrachty Rauchle.
Naebody mynds Aultdrachty noo,
though lood it rattles still.
Yet Aultdrachty’s watter wis’nae awas clear,
an it hods a muckle saicret.
Sae hearken, an hear the feech
o’ the packman, shepherd an the whisky smugglers.
An beyont the reevin win’
the toon-folk, michty-me,
brought forth their ceevil brolly –
Fit mare eesless cud there be!
Stapit foo’ wi dram he wis,
oor Packman on’t fairst erran –
oor hapless loon had’nae heed Aultdrachty’s rowt
on such a fearfu’ nicht.
The snaa it came ower the Moonth, a bin-drift,
like nane afore.
Poor loon, asleep aside Aultdrachty,
his lum still a reekin’ was berit.
Linvaig, wis the hame of McAndrew: anither mither’s loon –
lured by Aultdrachty’s cackle.
then risen fae a halla, a sleekit naisty beast,
seelenced by Aultdrachty it pounced.
Aye Aultdrachty saa it’ fearsome.
Aultdrachty’s rauchle had a’ thirst that widnae slack.
Half a’ doozen smugglers naixt tae the slauchter,
theer bellies reed-het wi’ watter distillate,
jeelous Aultdrachty cud’nae hae that!
Aye the watter wis nae awas clear.
An then Aultdrachty reeled its maist keerious,
the hapless, stupit toon-folk,
the umberella makkers:
fit an’ earth tak them tae Aultdrachty, nane will ken,
nane but Aultdrachty.
Fit a spleeter o’ weet,
A shooer like nane
eesless brollies, blan in-bye-oot,
sae they huddled by Aultdrachty.
The watter it fell oot fae the heeven fur days, an nichts,
an fullt the quaich o’ Aultdrachty welt beyont the brim,
Ceevil folk, wi brollies, had nae chance.
That’s how lood wis Aultdrachty’s rattle
an sae its keerious tae think
the glen it ken’t has lang since ceased to roar.
The Dumfoonert Loon
There’s Naebody noo in the glen – lang since dwine’t awa.
Dwine’t awa an deid.
Littlins lachter, sing-sang, chirm and diddle
As sailent noo as the shuttered plaid o’ Bovagli’.
An the reevin win nae langer cairit the waxin’ lyrical
o’ Camlet’s auld Minaister.
Aye noo the furtive brow belongs tae this dumfoonert loon:
raikin roond folk gan ah so lang –
an caa’d a’ the same as ane anither!
Noo wi’ Camlet ane cud dibber-dabber faireveer:
Aibergeeldie nae that’s fa sure – but fit loon?
Peter wis it yir namsak?
Ah, cud you be sure – I doot that!
Aye I doot that – they were inextricable – did ye nae oonerstan!
Surely no!!
Cud bleeter a’ day – jist like the Camlet folk a the’ day
Til the Sma stills smacked afrontit
an Girnoc touns drapped an rouped til a’ but scaitered rickles.
Left salient; but fa the wheeblin an fusperin of the hameward win!
Aye hameward.
The hieland Clearance ah richt –
Still Girnoc’s stamack wis wachty lang afore.
Dooble liveliheids: fairmers not jist.
Sleekit lums tae dodge the gauger:
An smuggle the naftie ooer the Mounth.
Pairliment’s Act. An Act oot-by anaither warld.
A deidly haimmer. Deidly.
A yellow horse – a gowden jewel shimmrin gainst Lochnagar
Wis the laird’s very own ye ken.
Then unexpectit the laird wis gan – jist drappit deid:
an tae The Camlet cam his shimmrin Stallion.
Fit chancy; nae but surely heeven pre-ordainit:
on the back of yellow, young James Gordon, a loon jist nine,
galloped awa fae the ragin’ gauger.
Anaither faimily had flit the Girnoc: fairever –
No time tae greet: the family.
The family of The Dumfoonert Loon.
The Gordons, aince inextricable, were gan.
A’ but ‘Red Donald’ – prodeegious o’ Bovaglie.
He fairmed wethers in the hunners & thoosands (an mair!)
Jist for the killin, an Balmoral
Cairtit doon the ‘Butcher’s Walk’ tae the Royal hoosehold:
fit they cad ‘The Mutton Larder.’
Nae wonder ‘Red Donald’ wis the Queen’s very ane flumgummer!
Donald’s drooth (it has been said) wis no for the watter:
Tummlers o’ the stonger stuff wis his stoorum!
Aye his fancy wis for a dram or two (an mair!) –
Donald used to tak his horse and cairt doon glen tae ‘The Inver.’
Aifter a guid nicht, stocious an greetin foo,
Donald wud shaky-doon in his cairt.
Aye his horse had seen it a’ afore!
Even blind-foldit, Donal’s horse cud tak him hame:
tae the sheltered plaid o Bovagli.
Wan day, twa loons wi noshun fa mischief –
unhitched Donal’s cairt wi auld prodeegious still in it –
aye sleepit foo’
an then hitched it back togaither – but not afore
first passing the shafts of the cairt throw the spars o’ Bovaglick’s gate!
The mischeevous anes hod in-by the plaid
An laughit seek, fan Donal deleerious, hootit:
‘I doot the diel himsel has been at work here the day!’
Cameron The Factor – wis a sleekit man ah richt
oonder the coonsel aff Balmoral.
Aifter all, Girnoc had nae mair tae promise.
Folk had nae seengle penny atween them:
Days of dreeving beast gan –
Naftie outlawed –
An noo the Royal takover!
Fit an earth naixt!!
Aye, The Camlet – the hairt o’ the glen,
wis heavin it’s last sorrowfu’ beat.
Naisty deeds, or wis it mercy?
Anyhoo lang-heidit Cameron wis tae be
the Meesenger o daith tae a way of life:
Nae mair chirm
Nae mair diddle,
Nae mair Sing-sang,
Nae mair Littlins’ lachter.
There’s Naebody noo in the glen. Naebody.
Naebody but the dumfoonert loon.
At Bovagli’s door he sits aside an auld currant tree,
son-afore-the father.
Heevenly scent – speeritool yet waesome
Heid foo, an greet-hertit, o’ days gan by.
Aye Bovagli, oh so buitifool – lochnagar’s saicret jewel:
strikes melancohly an’ wonder in equal measure.
Beyont the shuttered sailience within
A stained enamel baith as ready to pour
as it surely wis on Donal’s last nicht.
Weavin in an oot the wuid – noo the preeserve of the deer:
yet aince that of the Gordon bairns.
Bitten aff by Bovaglick’s cald win
wi’ smallpox – such a loss of littlins.
Son-afore-the-father
Heeven scent o’ the bonniest quines.
Currant blossom.
An a loon dumfoonert.
Linvaig hame of the cherry blossom.
Wis tae be Girnoc’s very last tae flit.
Aince it wis fairmed by twa brothers Gordon – sons o’ The Camlet.
At Linvaig, look oot aboot ye, fae imaiginashun can easy conjur
Wolf McAndrew:
A mither’s loon lost tae the wild an raised by the pack.
At Aultdrachty, in the Muick, he cam back.
Aye he cam back!
Cud you believe it: at Linvaig lodged a huddle o’ umberella makkers
Fit in the Girnoc: Ceevil folk wi brollies!?
Fit mair eesless cud there be!!
Not even the dumfoonert loon
wid tak, a brolly, tae the Girnoc!
Mair keerious still:
Centuries of doodles writ upon an auld wooden Linvaig Flesher:
Doon tae the ditties signed by the twa Gordon brothers:
an remynders o’ bills;
calculashin’s;
sheep coontit –
An then this:
“Lost last night, Emma Gordon,
last seen going down the road with Fred Duncan’s clothes on.
A’body givin information on her whur-aboots will be rewarded.”
The dumfoonert loon has tae tip his cap to Emma.
An wi’ a guid smirk,
she tips him back wi Fred’s!
The Cosh – the halla an gate tae the Girnoc:
The Miller there wis auld Joseph: Joseph ‘the frugal.’
Anither Gordon, an anither son o’ Camlet!
Aye inextricable ah richt, fae Joseph, wud yae believit,
marrit his mither’s sister!
Auld Joseph wis a prood man, in an ancient year,
yet still trekked ooer the mounth tae Brechin ta visit his grandbairns.
In plaid, kilt and bunnet and wi twa staffs he set aff:
A striking auld man.
Takin his laist journey.
Auld Joseph started up the moontain track all alane
But some of his faimily followed him.
Aye Joseph wis proud, bit he wis auld and guy weak,
an they were feartit for him.
The way wis steep, an soon the snaa gaithered deep.
Joseph tak aff his ill fittin shoes to try an mak the gayin mair aisy,
an tied the shoes tae his staff.
Faimily followit auld Joseph aiver-mair closely
an cud see that he wis vairy tired an oonwell.
Aifter lodging in the snaa, his staff (tied wi his shoes)
he laid doon tae rest.
Ainly tae rise again an stagger on an on,
but fa shorter and shorter.
An shorter.
Nae ‘frugal’, that cannae be richt.
Joseph’s epitaph shud reflect the man on his laist journey.
Joseph: Joseph the cooragious. Joseph the thraan.
At Camlet, the dumfoonert loon drifts in ban oot:
Camlets bairns had such mixt fortunes ye ken.
Some remarkable an so warldly wise;
Cortachy Castle an Airlie too
Burnside, Springfield an even Priory!
Whilst aithers lost affrontit at the gaugers will,
or shamit, jist mebbe, thro a clandesteen birth
in the grounds of Abergeeldie.
Lived experience
I had heard o’ yer big brither
but nae you:
The ‘independent’ school up North that oor
future King
attended.
But Archie, as the “Do-Upper-Of-The-Week”
yer toun is to be
D E M O L I S H E D –
for an Off-Grid Development Opportunity.
All consents have been granted.
But Gordonston, my wee brother,
no consents are required for remembering.
The auld map tells me ye were
L O C H I N V E R ‘ S –
the Gordon that colonized Cape Briton
and who made a fortune afore returning hame!
Centuries later yer Laird was Auchencruive
that Glasgae Merchant made good –
who still today looks over the big City:
hats aff tae the man!
But my wee brither,
ye ken what:
I want to hear from you
aboot what matters maist:
lived experience.
The Politician’s Clock
Child on tippy-toes
on a chair
winding her grandfaither’s clock.
Wee Catherine
we are a’ in transit
facing a warld
in by’oot.
It wis saiven-twenty when you finished
winding the clock:
so the sailors recalled [arriving and leaving Leith docks]
And noo we hae “electric time”
and yer grandfaither stands tall in
Maxwell Clerk waves, , , ,
For A S T R O V [and us all]
the transit clock
will strike TWELVE
and stop.
But Catherine, wee Catherine, the Bell of the transit clock rings again.
Granite piers do not float –
stars guide
and voyaging sailors discover
that time is not ‘two faced’.
The Porsolt Forced Swimming Test (Behavioural Despair Test) is centred on rodents’ response to the threat of drowning. It has been interpreted as measuring susceptibility to negative mood in humans. It is commonly used to measure the effectiveness of antidepressants in rats.
The following is a poem written by me about this test. I wrote it in my mind on my way to Siberia. Once at Siberia I jotted it down in my commonplace notebook. This Siberia is a farm, now a ruin, in the East Neuk of Fife. It should not be confused with the extensive geographical region spanning much of Eurasia and North Asia.
The poem recounts the friendship of two rats: one rat is called ‘Hippocraticus’ and the other rat ‘583’. Hippocrates is often referred to as the “Father of Medicine”. Agnes Richter was a psychiatric patient and seamstress. She made herself a jacket whilst under psychiatric care. It seems that she was known as ‘patient 583’ and so she stitched this label into her jacket.
The Royal College of Psychiatrists has stated that “We know that in the vast majority of patients, any unpleasant symptoms experienced on discontinuing antidepressants have resolved within two weeks of stopping treatment”.
Dr William Sargant (1907-1988) was a British psychiatrist who is remembered for the evangelical zeal with which he promoted treatments such as psychosurgery, deep sleep treatment, electroconvulsive therapy and insulin shock therapy. He wrote, with Dr Eliot Slater in 1944 the influential Textbook: “An introduction to physical methods of treatment in psychiatry”.
“Real Psychiatry” is a blog written by an American Psychiatrist. In terms of psychiatry in the UK a new textbook is to be published this month: it is titled “The Medical Model in Mental Health: An Explanation and Evaluation”
P O R S O L T
Aye its cauld, like Siberia! Says rodent ‘583’
So keep swimming Hippocraticus
ye wud’nae want to SINK.
Keep swimmin’ Hippocraticus
We’re being ‘evaluated’ did ye nae ken?
And all will be ‘resolved’ when we stop
swimming.
Did ye nae hear:
Dr Sargant is giving a talk on ‘values and feeling valued’
Aifter a plush dinner at some Royal Society or anither!
So keep swimming Hippocraticus.
There’s gan tae be a Text book aboot us –
it will “explain” how we feel
based on the new brain cells that grew in oor brains
before we drooned.
The Text book is to be called “REAL PSYCHIATRY”
Keep swimming Hippocraticus!
“The Rules of Science”
are credible
and we
are not.
“I am sae tired 583
I don’t hae strength to swim much longer
Gie me a ‘choppy sea’ any day
tae P O R S O L T”
Keep swimming Hippocraticus! [rodent 583 is close to tears]
the imbalance is not ours.
Hippocraticus [sinking]
Is now dead.
Dr Sargant enters the laboratory
and prepares the PORSOLT glass beaker for 583.
o o r B I G B R A W c o s m o s
aye my fiere
Peter Pan flew oot the windae, aince agin
it was braw tae be flyin’ oot there
where the sky is nae little!
Story-telling, surveying in oor ain vernacular:
that’s nae jist ony quantity!
Yer spaiken scrieves were interstellar, solarising,
and unsoberising.
Let’s hae a dram tae that!
In a sky that is nae little
where light is silent
we flew hauding hands wi’ the pawky Duchess of Lost
and huddin’ oan wi fingernails
took a ride on the glimmerin’ tail o’ Hale Bopp.
Michty me whit
B R I G H T N E S S !
And the craik as we flew the gaither
It wis’nae jist telescopic, microscopic
it was daft and fun,
fun and daft
and B R A W!
Last Monday
The following poem is addressed to Robert Hepburn who died in Temple, 1798. It is based on a stone gateway that has out-survived the house that it long since introduced.
Last Monday
The only surviving son of Baad, you did guid.
Jist a bairn you lost yer faither.
It wis yer mither that you followed
through this gateway.
Summer 1786:
and a June day that you naiver forgot!
Appointed Scotland’s new Commisioner fae Customs:
arrivals and exits wer noo yer aivery-day!
Whit a summer that wis!
Aye Herschel wis far seeing
Maister, ye wer guid tae me. I will naiver forget that.
Maister, you died afae young and I miss you!
Yer hoose is noo lang gan,
but yer mither’s gateway
still stands in a muddy field
The ‘REMARKABLE FINE BEEF’
that you raised in this field wis a’ sold
aifter yer daith.
[Oh, I shud hae said, this is William, yer gairdener spakin’. Nae doot you recognise my voice]
TWO CENTURIES later [somewhere beyond a pause]
Peter walked though this gateway.
divisive folly
I am the
most scientific poet
that poetry has ever known.
AYE RIGHT!
I am the
most artistic scientist
that science has ever known.
AYE RIGHT!
The Atmosphere.
Jist aifter lunch, on the first day of a new year,
ootside yer front door
you drapped deid.
John Glennie,
as the shepherd o’ Lochrie
you had woken each day o’ yer lang life
in this place and
and experienced,
it’s wunnerfu’ness.
Naebody aiver found a hame for that
Highlan’ Ewe that found its way tae Lochrie
In the Spring of 1864
Aifter ye had gan [gan an deed]
Yer son Sandy
gae an illustrated talk to the
Strathdon Mutual Improvement Society.
He ca’d his talk ‘The Atmosphere’.
The sounds of the Garrel
Vairy early on a spring morning,
the year afore last –
I went luikin in the Kilsyth foothills for a God.
In the Garrel Glen,
a journey into experience began.
The early morning light wis wunnerfu’ –
luminous without being fierce.
I luiked fa’ a lang time,
fa this God –
realising with every step [and breath taken]
that I had hardly begun tae see!
I gaither that the Kilsyth Wayfarers’
used to ramble here.
I came across several o’ them
in a churchyard withoot a church.
Wan broken tombstone aifter anither.
Yesterday,
I returned tae the Garrel wi’ my friend:
‘airmed’ wi’ new fangled gear
and satellite coordinates [for the God’s heid].
Bit, alas, we cud find nae carved God!
It wis then that we came across a shepherd,
gaithering his flock.
He telt us to ask his wife –
fa she wud guide us.
Whit a wunnerfu place she led us tae.
It wis here in dappled, gentle light,
that we met a maist fierce luikin God!
On the same rock face
my friend spotted yer
G R A F F I T IO.
[I hud hairdly begun tae see!]
Here ye carved yer name, date, and hame toon.
That year wis 1892,
an yer hame, Kilsyth.
I noo ken,
thanks tae a’ the new fangled stuff
– o’ which my time noo benefits –
that ye were born, an deid, Kilsyth.
1892.
How yer life changed.
That wis the year you married Margaret.
Yer parents did not live to celebrate this special day –
yer mam dying the year afore.
Peter, yer brither, a policeman –
wis much respecktit in Kilsyth.
A photograph o’ him in uniform survives –
I wunner if you luiked like him?
Yer childhood wis spent by the Garrel burn.
From Charles Street and Duntreath Terrace –
you had tae cross the footbridge to get tae
school.
That footbridge is still there,
an leads tae
the war memorial and
bandstand.
Music still plays.
I cannae see it.
But I hear it!
The sounds of the Garrel.
Come back the earth
[endlessly] I was stravaiging in the wrang gear!
an auld fairmer revealed this
to me!
Back came my Grumpa
in his SERIES II!
WATERLOO
‘Today seems not indifferent to yesterday‘
so Big Ted said to me
as we set off on another wee adventure
[I think that he was talking about the weather,
but I may have misheard him,
as the Land Rover we travel in is noisy]
[It is also 64 years old and the milometer has clocked again].
Today [not indifferent to yesterday]
we set off for Waterloo.
Yes, WATERLOO!
No, not the battle site,
but a former fairm
remote in the Scottish Heilan’s!
On oor Caledonian adventures,
Big Ted refers to me as Sancho Panza, we are, after all
the kind, as people say
who like to go on adventures.
And the more madcap the better!
It was a fair trek to Waterloo,
but hill aifter hill made
beauty of the distance.
Oor adventure felt like an ‘art’ of farewell.
Finally, we reached Waterloo:
sweaty and puggled,
we found it to be:
the faintest, lightest, nearly not there.
Stanes rickles, jist ankle high, were all that summed up
existence.
ABSTRACTIONS
I had not lang been at school
already consideered ‘backward’
an my faither, in search o’ Abergeldie
had his bairns finding
aivry deid ‘Peter Gordon’ on
a’ the tombstones in the Kirkyard.
Aye, ther wis mony deid Peter Gordons!
An as bairns, we skipped wi’ glee
as we found wan aifter anaither!
I didnae oonerstan’ at the time,
I wis ‘backward’, ye ken,
sic a profoond lesson:
the reverse side of a’ words.
The abstract distance wis lost oan me:
my notes an self, alreedy Petering oot.
INNER COMPASS
You heard me blether oan a YouTube video
an ye got in touch!
Aye, for mony a year I wis
a doctor.
Ye’el need SCOT-STRANSLATE,
Not jist fa me,
bit asae fa Psychiatry!
Psychiatry,
unner the heidy influence of Industry
dumfoonert and noo defensive!
Ye ask for advice, but un-doing hairm
Is onything but easy.
Hoaiver, I can be a Transatlantic ‘digital’ friend,
in this aiver abstract warld.
GRANVILLE
Yesterday, I chalked your name
in bright colours
on a glacier strewn boulder in Glenglass.
Yer dear hame, Balnarge,
is nae mare than an an ankle-high ruin.
Granville, the last Friday of July 1934,
a proud day for you!
Presented the Glenglass school prize
for ‘Bible Knowledge’!
Aye, Granville
you grew up to be weel kent
Behavin’ outrageously in Inverness in yer kilt –
yer name, awaes in the Heidlines.
Yesterday, I chalked your NAME
in bright colours
on a glacier strewn boulder in Glenglass.