TONIGHT MY HEAVING HEART
Tonight my heaving heart has laid me low
and shudders in the holes of its dark cave.
The fractured rhythm of some loathsome row
beats out the brutal measure of my days,
rasps against the roof and dripping walls
and builds into a tune that mocks and crows:
A dirge, lament or elegy that drifts and calls
over the dead white fields where nothing grows.
A Glasgow child stands on a slivered rock
and in his eyes there is no trace of fear
as Chaos lumbers down the steely Clyde;
a hairy beast wrapped in a kilted frock;
to lie in wait for forty frozen years.