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The Drunken Lyricist
We
met that grey dull evening on the east shore.
Roaring
round the bend he came, flat out
at
fifteen miles an hour, and stopped. We had
to shout
till
he turned off his engine.
It's going to
pour
it
looks like: me.
Oa, I'm haardly
cancerned
thee
night wi weather, man! he said, flat cap
askew.
Gap-toothed
smile. Torched cheeks. Eyes' Atlantic
blue.
Hiv
you seen any? Weemun? Whisky burned
its
golden road in him, and he would search.
's
that wun, man? – the shore's dark speck.
Not
waiting a reply, through the bright wreck
of
that grey evening, he roared off, with a lurch.
His
tractor almost reared on its back tyres.
Fifteen
miles an hour flat out, parched by amber fires.
Gerry
Cambridge
©
Gerry Cambridge. From The Shell House,
Scottish
Cultural Press; reprinted by
permission
of the author.
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