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Sheena BlackhallPoemsElegy for a Dead Admiral, Possibly Nelson The Ghaists o ma Mither's Simmer Frocks |
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The Ghaists o ma Mither's Simmer Frocks
Sheena Blackhall
Ma mither's simmer frocks, huffed in the loft aa winter,
claiked aboot picnics, July shoppin sprees,
dreamt aboot special occasions,
Waukin in sinsheen throw Glen Gairn's saftsome breeze.
Fur the luv o linen, cotton, polyester, silk,
ma mither studied the lear o catalogues,
stalked shop aisles on the scent o a perfeck buy,
collectin frocks like luvers.
Efter she deid, naebody murned or lued them,
naebody smeethed their faulds or darned their teirs.
Ma mither's frocks grat buttons o grue an wae,
tint aa sense o shape, their lirks grew waur,
the scaffie hurled them aff tae a dreich demise.
They haunt me noo, those textile ghaists o simmer,
their hangers teem. Nae flesh tae gar them sweesh,
they hugged her like ma faither niver did.
