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Bobby Bell an the doos

saft, sleepy cooin’ frae above
the clock – set
at first light
afore ah wiz up
low voices so the wean didnae hear

- grand day -
- ah hear there’s rain ower the Campsies -
- this wind’ll blaw them back -
- first time this year ah’ve been oot in mah sleeves an’ galluses -
- aye another cup’d be grand, thanks Helen -

straps o’ sun on the claithespoles
- mind mah maw complainin’ boot her washin’
thae bluidy birds! wi’ her wee fist shakin’ -

- aye Bobby keeps a guid loft -
- ken he payeed twenty smackeroonies fir his lead bird -
- naw! -
- aye that sun’s warm eh -

dad’s snorin’ in his deckchair
- Tam, yir tea’ll gang cauld -
bees buzzin’ on Louie’s roses
sun creepin’ ower the greens

- ah hear Archie McCrindle pits oot his wife’s bakin’ fir tae get them in -
- that wid mak them turn aroon’ an’ gang awa! -
- a’ ye need’s a good lassie doo – they’ll come hame fir that -

- want tae hold her? mind now, hold her wings like this -
heather ‘n slate ‘n moss glintin’ in the sun
an’ her hairt beatin’ hard against ma haund
bright ee regards me – you’re no’ the wan
- aye, see her lookin’? she kens he’s close -
- nearly five – no long noo -

- whit’s that? ower there -
- I cannae see – whaur?
gees the clock – gees the clock quick
it’s him – ahm shair it’s him
c’moan my wee lad, c’moan -

droppin’ oot the sky
feathers flurryin’
landin’ feet perfect
only the mesh separatin’ him
frae his beloved noo

- aye just a meenit, laddie
let’s git this ring aff first
then she’s a’ yours -

ding!
- aye that’s it -
- by bit that’s a good time -
- aye no bad -
- first one hame again then Bobby -
- aye


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Photo © Rachel Cowan
Read full story · Comments { 0 } December 28, 2011 Poetry

Cuddies

The word ‘cuddy’ popped into my head and I remembered…


I was about seven years old on a frosty cold winter’s morning, lying cosy warm in my flannelette pyjamas under a heap of heavy blankets. Outside my window was the sound of huge hooves moving slowly down the street and the clink of glass as the milkman pulled the bottles from their crates. Everyone had milk delivered to the doorstep then. In the winter, sparrows, taught the trick by blue tits, I later discovered, would peck at the silver foil tops of the milkbottles, drinking the rich tap o the milk. Sometimes I’d watch the milkman bring out a long sack which he attached with straps to the horse’s head. Contented munching would follow before they resumed their round. The horse and milkman were both employees of the Co-operative Society (which ran a dividend scheme for savers) and the cuddies were stabled not far from our house. I learned a valuable lesson about not standing directly behind a horse in those stables – one big beast, anxious that he couldn’t see what was making a noise behind him, kicked out with a back hoof, caught me a glancing blow. As children, we all collected milkbottle tops, washed them carefully and mashed them flat to dry on the kitchen windowsill. You could make necklaces from them or you could collect them for Blue Peter, who miraculously translated those mountains of bottletops into food for starving children. We didn’t know it, but there was an Edinburgh milkman just across the River Forth from us who would become one of the suavest men on the planet – Bond – James Bond.


jes a glimmert o licht
hoar
oan milk bottles
an the cuddy
chompin thae big teeth
huge heid
sunk in his brakefast sack
the cairt clinkin and shakin
doon the street
ma mither’s rolled up
note in the empties
two please
bi the time
the milk cam in frae the door
the canny wee spyugs
shelpit breists a puffed oot
wid hae
takken the tap aff it
ah wis sent
tae pey the milk
at the co-op
mither’s divvy nummer
twa six wan
and me wi a mooth
fu o braces

Photo of Billy the milkhorse by kind permission of Lochgelly Memories
Read full story · Comments { 0 } December 23, 2011 Poetry

The Cadet


He wore thon tank-top his Auntie Agnes hid knittit him
ower orange nae-iron bri-nylon.
When we danced the Gay Gordons
it wiz an electric experience
and Christ his oxters reeked.

Mah dad thocht he wiz a good catch
ah wanted to say
‘aye bit you dinnae hae his plooky face
stuck in yours’.

He ate ma mither’s Florence cake
hunkered doon aside the wan bar electric
his cadet’s cap oan the best chair
ah wisht we still had the dug
she’d a liked a nice bit o uniform
tae chow oan.


Thae eyes like watered doon sky wi a dash o milk
the left wan jist aff gley
comin tae rest oan mah
burgeonin bezooms
that wiz the closest he ever goat tae them.

When ah took up proper
wi Goggsy
(purple granny glasses, dark tumblin hair
n a likin fir revolutionary verse)
we wore oor lips oot
oan a street corner we kent he wiz watchin
he didnae come roon again efter that.

Ah heard his feet failed him in the end.
Mah dad wiz inconsolable.

❦ To listen to me reading this poem, click the audio player below. ❦

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

Read full story · Comments { 0 } December 23, 2011 Poetry