The Last Ride

by Shane Strachan

‘One of the most unconventional people in Arbroath […Marion Angus was] the first lady in the town to smoke and the first lady in the town to ride a bicycle.’ – Reverend Andrew Russell

On the last bike ride, ye mak yer wye past
the grey aishlar façade o Erskine Kirk –
yer faither’s pewpit staans quaiet noo
abune the stoorie pews whaur, as a lass,
auld wifies wi lang-sichtit een wid pass ye
saicret sweetmeats wi ringlass hans
and ye’d lowe wi a gowden licht.

Fae Commerce Street ye wheech throu
the crookit seaward toon, its forest o lums
huddlet roon the Brothock burnie
whaur the stink o flax heckilt and bleacht
in Millgate’s plashies mells wi the sauty reek
o smokie barrels – a guff ye dreidit
as a bairn newly flittit tae Bank Street.

Ayont the fit o the toon, the wheels spin doon
atween the Signal Toorie an the Common green
whaur foxglove heids turn tae elifinlan
and the coconut scint o gowden whin sipes in.
Their yalla petals glint til the saut-moud sea
as it tries tae sough saftly sae the Bell Rock
micht slummer langer on the horizon.

This droosy simmer nicht, there’s nae time
tae ging back tae Keptie Pond and waatch
the year gang roon frae green tae gowd,
nae time tae get yer skates on and skite ower
the lochie’s icey face afore it fades,
the grey peewit pleeps seen replaced
bi sparras skimmin the glaissy burnies.

On Elliot Links the bike slaws tae a stap.
Yer nephew sets his mortal fit doon
on the grass and taks ye oot the basket.
As the laigh sun sets reid, he opens the urn –
Ye flee up and furl wi the blawin sands…
Like reek, ye become as shedaless as wind
an faa asleep anaith the hungry waves.