Fessen in the Vernacular

At times, life can be
a North Sea wave, brakkin ower me
caul an hard, like a fist
ah’m nae quick enough tae sidestep. 

Like lost love, it taks ma braith awa
an ah’m soaked through,
unable tae cling
tae the perts o me
nae shaped
bi the hershness 

At ithers ah’m a dreich island landscape
shot through wi the strength o slate grey,
dense volcanic rock.
The dark violet sky circlin owerheid. 

Theday, ah took ye past
the Fittie Bar, ma da’s favourite,
far ma faimily congregated tae bid him his last.
There is ane o them wide blue skies
turnin the sea a deep bluegreen
like his een. 

Ye mock ma accent that shifts
back an forth 
fae Glasgow, ma spiritual hame
an back tae Aiberdeen
like the wee waves lappin at oor taes. 

Despite the charged sea life smell,
jist the same the salt smerts oor kisses.
An ah’m grateful for it aa
an that ancient ability
tae think 
wi ma hairt.