By Roddie McKenzie
Auchenshoogle Dreaming, on Sic a Winters day
( The HawkHill and Sinderins)
As my eyes cleared of the watering chill,
there was a familiar vision:
crescent moon in that Prussian blue sky
remembered in- as in Oor Willie:
white arc over a douce-town horizon,
piked with steeples.
Stoaterin`frae the Campbeltown Bar on the Hackie
reeking o` Cally 80,
I saw it framed by the Gothic steeple of the Church,
despite Sinderins, empty
ae cuddies and silhouettes of spear-heided bobbies.
That silver sickle sinking in the west,
shone through eighty years of Scottish childhoods.
I took comfort from seeing it.
Jings! crivvens! Help ma boab!
Oh tae live in Auchenshoogle,
Wi` Soapy, Eck, Bob an` The Broons.
Times I wished for woods around me,
instead of the tenemented canyons o` Glesga.
And to find a lucky four leafed clover
or sixpences in the grass.
I`m still seeking that lost,
o`er the Stoorie Brae.
©Roddie McKenzie 23/2/15