Higher than the craw-stepped
gables of our institutes – chess-clubs,
fanciers, reels & Strathspeys –
the old kingdom of lum, with crowns agley.
All birds will be citizens: banners
of starlings; Jacobin crows – also:
Sonny Jim Aitken, Special P.C.
whose red face closed in polis cars
utters terrible, ridiculous
at his brogher and sister citizens
but we’re no feart, not of anyone
with a tartan nameplate screwed to his door.
Citizen also: the tall fellow I watched
lash his yurt to the leafy earth,
who lifted his chin
to my greeting, roared AYE!
as in YES! FOREVER! MYSELF!
The very woods where my friend Isabel
once saw a fairy, blue as a gas flame
dancing on trees. All this
close to the motorway
where a citizen has dangled.
maybe with a friend clutching
his/her ankles to spray
PAY NO POLL TAX on a flyover
near to Abernethy, in whose tea rooms
old Scots kings and bishops in mitres
supped wi a lang spoon. Citizens:
our spires and doocoots
institutes and tinkies’ benders,
old Scots kings and dancing fairies
give strength to my house
on whose roof we can balance,
carefully stand and see
clear to the far off mountains,
cities, rigs and gardens,
Europe, Africa, the Forth and Tay bridges,
even dare let go, lift our hands
and wave to the waving citizens
of all those other countries.