I am the angel charged to take you home.
I have nothing to look forward to. You have.
You think you nodded off for forty winks:
big boy, you have been dozing for a hundred years.
And here we are on Purgatory’s M8
blinking awake by floodlit Kirk o’Shotts
where rusted tv masts and riding lights
pitch above Central Scotland’s forest’s waves.
Here’s Holytown and Newhouse. Sing the one
about your father’s many mansions. Hope it’s true.
They’re gathered at the door so see you in.
Loosen your seatbelt. There’s our Maker – no,
that bloke with silver stubble on his chin
and five scenes from your famous childhood
tattooed on each forearm. On you go.