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.
Enjoyed. Home thought from abroad!
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