los Tornidos

A wis walkin doon Calle Carcel Baja

oan ma wey  tae Plaza Trinidad,  

when A hear this racket.

A think they cry it Proustian.

Here wis A, in a squerr wi a fountain,

 trees gey near in full bloom

cafe lights shinin, shoaps aa open, 

folk oot an aboot

even at this time a night,

but  in ma heid  A’m walkin doon Union Street

fur  the train at Glesga Central ,

Baa Bru’s winkin at me fae high up in Gordon Street

an A’m cairryin a wee poke a choaklit gingers

hame for ma Mammy.

Every wire and windae sill black wi starlins.

An the racket!  Enough tae deafen ye, so it wis.

Ye never hear them noo.

Glesga’s as silent

as its shipyairds and factory gates .

But thon racket!

It’s here.  Here in Granada.

Aa they Scots starlins

must’ve flown ower -

settled in the waarm.


Irene Brown