Convoyin her hame,
the touch o her
gloved fingers
in the fauld o my silk-happit airm.
I gaed ben wi her,
kissed the caller petals
efter a warm simmer rain.
An efter, she tichtens my steys owerabuin my braws,
daes up my buits wi the button-heuk,
me sortin my face the time she dawts.
Syne we’v the hertwarm fareweels juist inby,
yit naething speaks but the wag-at-the-waa.
Settin furth ablo lammer streetlichts,
kiltin my skirts for tae speel a causey stair,
three drunk men, takkin me for a wumman at first,
an scunnert at their ain begunkitness,
skreichs oot what should never been whispert.
Tae mysel she’s
the wild rose:
whites an pinks,
thorns an leafs.
An thae three drunks
is like a simmer blawin
o clock-gowan seeds.
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