Dumfries Collection

O wad some Power the giftie gie us

To see oursels as ithers see us!

It wad frae mony a blunder free us,

An’ foolish notion

Robert Burns – To a Louse

Being the daughter of a Dumfries woman, Robert Burns cannot avoid infiltrating my life. We used to walk past his cottage on the Nith on our way from my aunts house to the Dock Park, a tumble of cousins and dogs. A time when I didn’t think much about how others viewed me.

I grew up entering the annual Burns’ competition and watched my children do the same, winners at singing like me. My son even sang a Burns song for his higher music exam. Standing on stage singing in Scots wasn’t something I’ve ever felt self conscious about.

It wasn’t until later that I started to become consumed by how others saw me and whether I fitted in or belonged. High school probably does that for a lot of people. But in Dumfries I was just me.

The following collection of poems are about Dumfries and Galloway, the memories of the place and the people I loved who lived there.

—–

Escape to Dumfries

Fife Life was home and school

And paternal grandparents.

Practical and routine.

But, tumbled into the back of a van

On an old brown couch, bungeed (no seatbelts!)

With the family dog

We’d go to see Grannie and Papa.

With a stop at Broughton

For a pee and a play in the park;

And, if we were good, a stop at Moffat

For vinegar laced hard toffee,

That still waters my mouth at the thought.

Entertained by stories of cattle rustlers

As we rounded the Devils beeftub.

Guessing the miles on the markers as we drew closer.

The bent fence posts at Heathall,

and the old Gates Rubber factory where Papa bought wonky wellies.

Knowing we were close, Juno starting to whine,

Through the gates to Deans Park

Slowly up the gravel drive.

(Heaven forbid that gravel gets on the grass)

Before mobile phones but they were always out

Welcoming us as we arrived.

Dogs greeting, children released

Running round the garden while adults talked.

Fife life had routine.

Dumfries had novelty and freedom.

Orange boxes at the swimming pool to put your clothes in,

The bus to ice skating in Lockerbie,

Cousins together with no adults.

These cousins who would canoe over the Coll.

and take us jumping on the suspension bridge.

Thrill seeking and at home in their home.

That four storey sandstone townhouse

So at odds with Deans Park.

We could walk to TC Farries, my hyperlexic fever dream,

And we were never told no.

Whole worlds on laden shelves

Heavy with infinite possibilities.

Monkey puzzle trees at the Embassy

The place to go to celebrate anniversaries.

And to say goodbye

To my reasons to return to Dumfries.

So I take my children to my aunt’s townhouse,

Push them on swings in the Dock Park

And, on hot summer walks to Kingholm Quay and Solway swims

I craft their own escape from Fife life.

---

The Crichton

“Have ye seen ma wee dug?”

A shuffling, beslippered woman asks my Dad.

“Is it a wee black Scottie?” he asks. Aye.

“Wi a tartan coat?” It is.

“Its just run round that corner”

She shuffles off in lukewarm pursuit

There is no dog. Only grilles and locks.

We are in the Crichton to see Grannie

Only she’s not my Grannie.

Not in her eyes nor through mine

My Grannie is a busy woman who runs everywhere.

This lady is mute, static, with a bruised face.

The object of another patient’s frustration.

My Grannie knows she’s my Mum’s mother

This lady thinks my sister and I are her children.

Mum tries, and fails to hide her hurt.

She always remembers my Dad though

Not sure that helps the situation

And she recalls things from her past A past we never shared

“All my love from William” she writes on gifted stockings

And we wonder who she is remembering.

Papa’s name is James.

---

When I’m old

When I’m old

I won’t wear a peeny

with a box of bluebell matches in the pocket

for burning rubbish in the midden.

My knees won’t be sore

from pedalling between two churches

to play the organ on a Sunday.

I might wink at my grandchildren

as I turn off my hearing aid for a bit of peace and quiet

My twisted hands may deftly peel the tatties

with a string handled peeler

I won’t have rooms in my house

known as the parlour and the milkhouse

my carpets will go all the way to the wall in the hallway.

There’s a good chance I’ll get words for things mixed up,

describe the dog as awfy wide

and nod and smile in silent cahoots with small children

who still adore me when my speech is gone.

I might serve a full cooked breakfast on a Sunday

with a roast dinner an hour later,

ignoring all protests about not needing another slice of bacon.

I might wear overnight curlers

but they won’t be pink foam and hard plastic

I wont use my pills to keep my stockings attached to my girdle.

There’s every chance I’ll get up early

to cook porridge for the dog’s breakfast

on cold winter mornings.

But my dog wont sleep in a pile

of setters and Dobermans outside in the byre.

I won’t buy my groceries from a mobile van

and I don’t even know where to get Dutch Crispbakes

in their waxed orange wrapper.

Its sadly not looking likely that my friends will keep peacocks

as pets to be traumatised by grandchildren

in search of a show,

delighted by found feathers.

If I have family to visit I will stand

on my doorstep and wave as they leave

until they round the corner on their way home.

I didn’t have my wedding in my parlour,

nor shall I have my funeral.

I will never have to endure the Crichton

and visits from people whose relationships to me

are shifting and confusing.

I hope someone will think of me one day

with memories of quiet, unshakeable love.

Unexpressed but undeniable.

—–

These poems were drafted in reverse order. The one about my beloved Grannie written first, but I think they work better as a collection this way round.