Fife Child in the Fifties
They’ve long demolished the side-street by the Links
That set me journeying when I was six or so:
In my grandmother’s room I sensed the East –
Willow-pattern tea-chest, ottoman, divan, I know
As concepts now, mere concepts. Then, I gasped
At the elephant knick-knack carried from Ceylon
By her brother. From her window to the Forth
I saw Pacific islets, sunset deepening on
Silhouettes of palms. Later, I lifted the mask
To a scene of funeral pyre, volcanic pit:
The gong of a metal tub filled for my granddad
Black from the back-shift, coal-dust in his spit.
