("Fall from the slow-drawn days...")

I shall spit frae the harbour wa' at Pittenweem,

Kick an auld tin can doon the rumbling St. Monance ways,

Climb roon the Ness (this time it'll be nae dream)

Frae Balcomie sands tae Crail. Och, lassie, the days

Are no sae lang as they were, we mauna bide,

For waur than bombs can deave a man thir days,

An' it's no a man's brains or his siller that decide

It's the sand an' the stanes an' the grass whaur the bairnie plays.

Speer eftir the dairgies that lie aff the rocks a' day,

Speer eftir the reek that gaes up frae the lum at e'en,

Speer eftir Fife, auld cronie o' mines, an' say

That ma bairns are coming tae play wi' their faither's freen.

VI

Fall from the slow-drawn days like melting wax,

Uncomfortable fear. Drip softly from

The hanging boughs of eyeless trees, insist

On entry through decaying stable doors,

Oozing through straw, leering from dusty roofs,

Advance to music, fouling thoroughfares,

Corrupting homesteads, while the fungoid breath

Of a diseased fate warms the chill-faced world.

These are mushrooms where snowdrops grew.

The sky which once showed stars is now obscene

With buttons. O descend, festering fear,

Speak your appointed lines, play out your part,

That the kind curtain may at last appear,

Reminding us the story was not true.

240 |

Leaving the theatre, let us then demand

The northern blast, lift up the eyes and hail

The distant gelid isles where the aloof polar bear

Crunches the snow, and the black polished seal

Pushes his whiskered nose into the frozen world

To see the sun glinting on ice, the blanched earth aseptic,

And, far below, the icicled grottos blue and silent

Leading down, down into the dark where strange beasts dwell

And the shivering wind creeps through cracks invisible;

Where the quick blizzard falls, shutting out sight,

Hurriedly covering the bones of lost heroes,

Soundless patter of myriad feet descending,

Tap-dancing lightly on the graves they filled;

Where the solemn penguin bows to the midnight sun

And sometimes the gleam and crackle of northern lights

Makes pageant for a public that never comes,

Fire-works for small boys who are not there to see,

Scoop for staff-photographer who has not been informed;

Where six-months night hangs chill over the slush-grey desert

Bringing the fearless winds to cry through the dark,

Clutching the hypnotized earth with cold, skinny fingers,

Hollow-faced ice witch mastering the land,

On with the play, hot fear,

That we may soon

Turn backs upon the velvet stage and go

Alive into the tonic night.