Three Sonnets
1.
From the central belt take the coastal road
to the fair North East where we lay our scene.
In the clean sea air wee bairns best grow
picking crocuses by the firth of the Dee.
Trailing tributaries of twin rivers
toward cliffs from which naked we dive.
When water hits bare skin we shiver,
drookit and thankful to feel so alive.
Gleeful and giggling we tumble down dunes
and stumble through overgrown heather at pace.
With twigs in our hair and sand in our shoes
we learn to adore all this wide open space.
Poised to explore this world and all in it-
our land, in its vastness, taught us no limits.
-but then
as puberty hits and
sinks it’s horny claws deep
a sudden and dramatic
change in tone –
2.
The gulls crow cruel laughter cacophonous
like a chorus of car alarms roaring.
Inside the great granite sarcophagus
a town stuck in perpetual gloaming.
The Northern Lights never danced for us-
we became, like the sky, persistently grey.
Along braw beaches we so loved once,
restless youths set blazes and plot great escapes.
The glory days have been long left behind.
The wells run dry and the young run flighty-
anxious, impatient and aching to find
freedom… somewhere over the A90.
Resentful of aw that a Northern life lacks
when we go, we say we will nae hurry back.
-but then
absence, as it
turns out, truly does
make hearts grow
fonder –
3.
It is May when at long last I return
and the darling buds are in fullest bloom.
These old stone bridges never could be burned
and there is something in the air anew.
For all that was lost there was spirit gained
and though some that left never did come back home
after the crash, these streets were reclaimed.
So many new faces and places to know.
Still the landscape is nobly enduring
and for now still abuzz with such life.
The hill’s permanence is reassuring
in this cycle of boom, bust and strife.
And I feel, as I kneel to pick a snowdrop by the Don,
hopeful for this place where we finally belong.
Three Sonnets
1.
From the central belt take the coastal road
to the fair North East where we lay our scene.
In the clean sea air wee bairns best grow
picking crocuses by the firth of the Dee.
Trailing tributaries of twin rivers
toward cliffs from which naked we dive.
When water hits bare skin we shiver,
drookit and thankful to feel so alive.
Gleeful and giggling we tumble down dunes
and stumble through overgrown heather at pace.
With twigs in our hair and sand in our shoes
we learn to adore all this wide open space.
Poised to explore this world and all in it-
our land, in its vastness, taught us no limits.
-but then
as puberty hits and
sinks it’s horny claws deep
a sudden and dramatic
change in tone –
2.
The gulls crow cruel laughter cacophonous
like a chorus of car alarms roaring.
Inside the great granite sarcophagus
a town stuck in perpetual gloaming.
The Northern Lights never danced for us-
we became, like the sky, persistently grey.
Along braw beaches we so loved once,
restless youths set blazes and plot great escapes.
The glory days have been long left behind.
The wells run dry and the young run flighty-
anxious, impatient and aching to find
freedom… somewhere over the A90.
Resentful of aw that a Northern life lacks
when we go, we say we will nae hurry back.
-but then
absence, as it
turns out, truly does
make hearts grow
fonder –
3.
It is May when at long last I return
and the darling buds are in fullest bloom.
These old stone bridges never could be burned
and there is something in the air anew.
For all that was lost there was spirit gained
and though some that left never did come back home
after the crash, these streets were reclaimed.
So many new faces and places to know.
Still the landscape is nobly enduring
and for now still abuzz with such life.
The hill’s permanence is reassuring
in this cycle of boom, bust and strife.
And I feel, as I kneel to pick a snowdrop by the Don,
hopeful for this place where we finally belong.