Published September 15th, 2024
by Mairead Connolly
Here, folk ur lik threids, woven thegither intae a big, sprawlin carpet – a tapestry,
Each haudin th'uther in place.
And they urnae jist thir name or thir face either,
But thir history.
There's a sense o true community, an obliged loyalty tae wan anither.
Divisions? Aye, fae the Hill tae the Myre –
The Leven keeps hir pace.
Trains come late and buses early,
But it's comfy, here in the shadow o the rock.
That jagged, stony lump – the likes o which wid gie Sisyphus quite a fuckin jump!
Its heid frosted wi green, wearin its castle as a croon, canons pointin doon.
Av only ever been up it wance, fir a mass,
Whaur a hooded saint stood, motionless, watchin o'er us.
As a wean it seemed its height wis heav'n. Mibbe that's whaur He's been hidin?
The Big Guy, I mean: kickin up his big God feet, and smilin wi His big God teeth a wee grin.
Sunny up there, i'n't it?
A wee vacay, is it?
Aye...
About the Poet
Mairead Connolly resides in Dumbarton, West Dunbartonshire, Scotland.
Read the poet's biography on Mairead Connolly's Artist Page.
This poem is included in Poetry World #10,
published in the Wax Poetry and Art Library.
Previously published in Edinburgh Poetry Magazine:
Happiness in a Blood Orange (to my mum)
by Sam Irvine
Edinburgh Poetry Magazine is part of the Wax Poetry and Art Network.
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