nicht sweem

wi da last wine sunk
an da ootside table
kjissed ee last time
bi poesia de ta bon
wi snaekit oot
latched da back door
an fan da saund
aneath wir feet

fae taes dippit
tae knees christened
da sea lent in
lent oot
until shø liftit wis
clean aff da scrub
wi pat wir backs intae

wi nawtheen aneath wis
but da caress o saat
abön wis da cloods raesd
an da staurns abön
unteddird fae care
shaaed da wye
tae progress – rapido

wakkin hom
mareel danced
a blisseen
roond fitprints
we scrieved
tae da nicht

*ta bon, pronounced ‘ta boom’ : all good (Papiamento); mareel : maritime biophosphorescence

con dolores

‘Better to die on your feet, than to live forever on your knees.’ —Dolores Ibarruri, La Pasionaria

Dead on my feet, my case
rests on the concrete
beneath la Pasionaria’s fists upturned
always in defiance to the skies
which shipped demise
upon the guiltless heads
of the living and the dead.

The sun’s come out of hiding
for at least today
and the way has softened
the brace that’s held Glasgow’s hips
in tension for the season
those of us who’ve made it through
can start to put behind us.

It’s good to be alive
and across the Clyde
the Sheriff’s turnkeys are hoping
to chuck it all one day
for a parcel of land
beneath las Sierra Nevada.

I’ve died a thousand times
and keep coming back
with knees bent for neither man nor god,
only for the road that carries me
and the woman who’s feet
she gives me to.