Alba gu bráth

So..poetry...and politics...and my view on the Scottish Fight For independence. Although no apologies are made, this was written after a Celtic supporter, evidently ignorant of his own culture, began by singing IRA songs at me, followed swiftly by the lines "When Kate and Williams babe is born I hope it's still." So they can get @&*@ed...Corby is a place in the middle of England that opened it's arms to the Scottish, and a small contingency of them are ignorantly biting the hand that feeds. T

Beneath the droning bitter thistles,

Lions laze upon a cross of hips on frost,

and a frigid snap sews the Welland quilt

into a mute distance, breaking like surf against a wall.


In the den, where lavendergrass weeds invade to break rocks,

and suckle manna dripped from the prides gaping jaws,

Iron drinks rattleclank against finger smudged glasses

held aloft in revenance to hooped green Gods.


Twilit spikes simper, rememb’ring auld acquaintance.

The left leaf bears a standard: ‘Alba gu bráth’.

The right cups the bowl for the nectarfall,

their heads battering the paws, pulsing sore.


A mane stiffens so reparations are made for:

Brides taken. Shoes stolen. Skirts woven. Swords banned.

So let thistles clattertramp north, and throw up the wall.

Let shattering bowls echo through barbed spine pennines.


Let the bitter thistles drone from liberty pipes,

and shake mauve manes of their own; grizzling alone

under a kiss of snow upon evening sky, flapping in a gale.

May Lions be forgot, and never come to mind.

The End

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