For a Song

by Kevin Cormack

Wur dopplegangers welcomed us
wae cult-like smiles, trestle tables
decked oot wae wur stoor-bliind
bruck, at the Hell’s Half Acre
ker boot sale.

A rookle o years, fae ahint an under
beds an stairs, waardrobes an draars;
obsoletion shooldered through hatches,
hidey-holes an the usual inter-
dimensional portals, hid come awey
in a wanner — a gret suburban skrog
fae the bowels o wur marital ark.

Heidlight an steethless
we bowt hid aal back, of coorse,
bowt hid aal back for a song.
Weaponry, defence — this comfort
cacophony — hitched tae the bumper.
Wur industrial estate.

_
stoor  dust
bruck  rubbish
rookle  heap, pile
skrog  a tough root or old branch
           found in peat
heidlight  dizzy
steethless  without foundation