Mike Cormack

ISHBEL

Fuckn auld wifie!
It's nae lang aifter Xmas,
N wir sittin playin the new
Computer, fan there's a feart wee
Chap-chap-chap it the door.
Breether answers it.
"S'yir mam in?" she goes, near cheepin:
Ye kin hear aridy.
"Mam!" he goes. Mam goes tae the door,
N the wifie comes in, fuckn
Bawlin greetin, n collapses on the cooch.
Fuck sake.
It's no like we really ken her:
She's jist a neighbour.

"Fit's wrang Ishbel?" Mam goes, a worried.
Ishbel jist keeps bubblin greetin, n
Mam pats her on the airm,
His the fuckn cheek tae say
"Pit on the kettle will ye, Mike".
Ah go ben the hoose in the huff,
N mak twa cupsa coffee.
Ah hear Ishbel gan, "It's jist
Nae the same since Davie deid,
It's aye worst at Xmas," still
Fuckn bubblin.
See Mam, she's too saft.
A fuckn charity, specially
The time a year, ken?

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THIS LIFTED STONE

The sky is a bleak swollen storm, clouds
Low and torn like knifed pillows hover over
A smalltown coastline, burst, pouring foul
Face-numbing rain. A howling, all-shaking wind
Thrusts a swollen raging sea crashing
Against the protective embrace of a
Harbour wall, booming against it to splatter
Down onto deserted wharves, squat creels.

Men sit awaiting suppers or taxi down
To familiar smoky pubs, quieter now,
Deferential, the cheap emblems of their
Livelihood a touchstone, secret charms
Appeasing vengeful powers. The whole town
Has shuttered down into cowering
Frightened gatherings before the random
Subjection to an unknown, unfettered force.

This they fear: this isolated element;
A brutal pure force, unveiled;
A grinning skull at the insect people
Crawling for shelter on this lifted stone.

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KING STREET, ABERDEEN

The rank fishy waft floating
Down the long straight of King Street,
Shops selling hallal-meat and spices, or
Broken-down bric-a-brac, yellow-paged novels,
Slightly-chipped china, outdated computergames,
The somnolent air of October afternoons
Caught on the cusp of chipshop teatimes,
The dusk coming in like sleep –

The late-waking student-postered flats,
Up, noisily, all night long,
Flushed mothers buggy-struggling,
Tantrum-tormented,
Pickled drunkards in old mouldy suits
Grumbling their secrets to uncaring passersby –

An overcast day gives way to dull dusk:
Streetlights cast their glow, shops spill
Advertising light onto moist pavements.
Someone leaving a pub opens the door
To a full-faced blast of the rancid warm reek
Of lager, cheap whisky, fags, sweat and piss.

The fading light departs.
The shops have shut. A truck trundles
To blinking squeaking traffic-lights,
Its wake a rank fishy waft floating
Down the long straight of King Street.

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