Poetry by Ann Miller
Well, haud yer wheest a mo and let me think.
Weel then -
Hame is whaur the hert is -
is it no?
and once upon a time
twas whaur wallie dugs graced the mantle
and 3 geese traversed the wa'
in endless flight.
Hame was faither's pipe and the coloured cleaners
I bought him every year - you mind the kind.
He'd duly mak them intae wee men fer me,
He'd say 'here ye go bonny lass',
faithful pipe clenched tight in teeth
wi groove long worn.
Hame was couerieing in by the fire
tartan legs and cauld lugs.
It was a tully lamp in power cuts
and lightning visits tae the lavie.
It was a box foo o half pennies
we used when playing cards.
It was listening to the radio
while mum knitted socks
and dad mended shoes,
or tinkered wi his clocks,
ye mind? the anes he'd
be winding up to tell fowk
was time to leave when visiting;
'Here's yer hat and whit's yer hurry'
we'd laugh and joke
but that was him,
and his bedtime ritual.
Hame was sing-a-longs
when mum played piano;
it was books and music,
friends and fowk comin rund
for tea and sugary pancakes,
for help, or crack and telling jokes.
Hame was an open door
Mum's baking and dad's gerden.
Ye want mair?
let's just say
Maste o' a' -
Hame is in the past.
Poetry copyright to AnnMackIeMiller