If he’d done the right thing

by Mark Innis

went to meet his mates,
we wouldn’t be having
this debate. Don’t believe
they’re relieved that he’s still
living, they louns ay fetched
a fair auld premium.

That quine he walked hame,
her name it wis Jean,
worked in the sheds,
straight shooting machine,
never easy letting her go
afore her Ma got back
fae the bingo.

A canny chiel though
kains rep goes afore
yer heid’s roun the door,
that first impression ay crucial.
So, he wis happit, cooried doon,
in his ain huis
when news came through.

Yer brothers are gone,
ye’ve mair sisters noo,
than any mortal man
could handle. I’ll tell ye
straight loun, a god
would struggle.

So, he’s walking roun far boats
were built, he was built there too,
harbour of fathers. Limpets and whelks
made shite line bait, yer hert grew set
on rope, creels, nets, afore ye kaint owt,
ye were speaking correct.

Maistly still do as foam sails new,
falls like snow on streets they’ll
never stroll. Chapped hands
cupped, 3 coins for a sup,
as if he grew up
in the florist window.