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R Dickson Jan 2015
I'm just back frae The Kirk
Doon Canongate way,
Afore yi get tae Parliament,
That was brand new yesterday,

Way back tae the 1700's
A poet in his grave,
Fergusson the poetry man,
He couldnae be saved,

Banging his heid  in a fa'
Tumbling doon a' the steps,
Hadnae sterted livin' yet,
His poetry had some depth,

Rab trained as a minister,
He abandoned fir poetry,
At the age of twenty two,
With no heart for the ministry,

He took a job as a copyist,
Tae earn a crust tae live,
Probably hated it,
So much poetry for tae give,

If he wis alive the today,
He'd be pertying in Ibiza,
DJing wi' the discs,
Rapping like a geeza,

He was only 24,
At Cape Club he'd dae a gig,
I'm sure he enjoyed himsel',
It's something that he did,

After the fa',
Darkly melancholic,
Depression followed,
He  wisnea an alcoholic,

Straight to Edina's loony bin,
Then ca'd Darien House,
On Bristo Street used to stand,
Can't think what'd be worse,

He was born in 1750,
Died penniless in '74
Unmarked grave in Canongate,
Nae headstane was in store,

Many years later,
Head stane was selected,
Rabbie Burns inspired,
Was paid fir an' erected,

The date upon the stane was wrong,
Hopefully wis being changed,
By Robert Louis Stevenson,
But died before old age,

Grave is now restored,
Tae it's former glory,
Ironwork and stane cleaned,
But it's no the end o' story,

A statue wis erected,
On the street ootside the Kirk,
The way they positioned him,
He's on his way tae work,

You'll see the Parliament building,
If you wander doon the road,
Poems and poetry on the wa's
But none in Fergusson mode,

It seems he's been forgotten,
In this day and age,
Someone with his talent,
Wan o' Edina's greatest sage,

Let's hope we'll see his poetry,
On Scotland's parliament wa,
I dinae mean graffiti,
I mean poetry fir a'.
Sean Critchfield Jul 2011
The clock on the wall is God. His hands, sweeping by, reminding us that time is running out. So get to it, boy. The window is my eye. Looking to possibility as a green horizon. And the path is the new vein, running down my arm. Saying, "Blood is compulsory".

These shoes. I have always known I walk around at the expense of my sole. Wearing thin. But my feet feel so much better there.

I breathe in. I am told it is holiday nuts. Cinnamon. And air that is just a little to clean. But I like it just the same.

We let ourselves move the puzzle pieces into place, one by one, knowing what the picture was going to be already. We squeezed the last bit of it out with our hands until the juice ran down our arms and we held the pulp out like offerings to strange gods. We fought and fought to meet at the center and then promptly forgot why we were there.

And I am taken back to my nephews. The smiles. The reminder that blades of grass split our toes and somewhere in that is childhood. And I roll the ball to him and say, "Kick it." and he doesn't. And I say, "Not yet? Okay. I'll roll it slower." And he doesn't. And I smile and say "We'll wait". And he smiles and says, "It's okay. You'll figure it out." And I will.

Our strange adventure will be pushed into one point. Carried away like jasper. And the images of the Apache Dinae, the ears, the cloud we rode through, the ocean, and each of the little things will yellow and crack until it is nostalgic and sweet. Honey. Wine. Thyme and thyme again. Rolling down and creating a glow in the bottom of my stomach. Stoking my fire. Using my ennui as kindling.

Listen. Listen to each click. Listen to it saying, "It.. is.. never... too.. late."

My hands are sticky with possibility. The strange gods have begun to lap at my fingers. And I can see the look on the face of my nephew when he finally kicks the ball.

The clock on my wall is God. His hands are still. My hands are covered in hope. And I have begun to remember something I'd forgotten.

— The End —