Sanctified

Scotland where can we find you,
where are you hiding your gallus self?
Like a tick, a sliver of living skelf,
we’ve got you under our rainproof skin,
the sweet assassin in the shortbread tin,
the slug of bubbles in the Irn Bru,
the och to the aye to the och aye the noo,
the coo that moved, the gasps between patter,
the melted chocolate under the batter.

Scotland where can we find you,
where are you coorying, are you there?
You’re more than a toe-poke from a deep midfield player,
more than a flag or unspoken complaint,
the left handed chanter, the tartan paint,
the dot on the i of Inchnadamph,
the third wally dug, the silent f in Banff,
the heel to the toe to the step ye gaily,
the pechs at the end of the holiday ceilidh.

Scotland where can we find you,
where’ll you be on St. Rabbie’s Day?
In a trick of the eye on Electric Brae,
in negotiations with Juncker & May,
in C. John Taylor’s Collected Works,
in a shoulder bone in St. Mary’s Kirk,
by the roundabouts of East Kilbride
in Tuesday night smirr playing 5-a-side
on plastic pitches where men assemble
to channel the ka of Archie Gemmill.

Scotland where can we find you,
how will we know you’re even here?
From the hand reached out to the trustless fier,
from the opened door to the poorest house,
from offers of drams from the dourest of mouths,
from the company long kept, the one we’re still with,
to the airbrushed truth & the landscaped myth
chloroformed by mist while the pulse grows faint,
a nation with notions for earthier saints.