Brownsbank in Twa Pairts by Julian Colton
(i) August: Once Again A Place Unvisited
It's become a question of Internet perceptions.
Always the smallness and breadth of things.
Isolation and promise magnified by past and future.
An austere, unremarkable cottage
still without clean drinking water.
Poetry's true beauty is low-key.
If this was a soldier, a Washington or Revere,
vulgar flags might fly from every rafter
bugle sound at dusk and dawn.
Takes an awkward customer to spearhead a renaissance
carry the burden of a nation's expressive hopes
on frail, talented, provincial shoulders
his sharp and sweet white rose of Scotland an apt symbol
for generosity and meanness, backwater and hinterland.
Fag barely hidden by the gate at Biggar
big haired, tired black ringed eyes.
Accent flaunted London book launch
posed beside grinning Ginsberg
Grieve's Langholm reflection seems smaller
the mirrored reception room fuller.
Like words coming into focus
slow drive through Borders assumes wider significance
something for a nation to hang its literary hat on
let the world know Scotland is here.
(ii) September: Finally Visited
Reciting under the rowan tree
blood red berries, dark green leaves
planted in '93 by Eddie Morgan
it occurred to me our serious poetry
not to CMG's everyday taste
confirmed by cheap thrill Dick Francis tomes
in the eclectic book shelf library.
But the laddie who sang and danced
idiosyncratic high camp, smiling, gritted teeth
impromptu in the bright autumn sunshine
more to MacDiarmid's 'man of the people' liking.
While the writing fellow peeked from the conservatory
wondering what the hell was going on
I pictured Grieve's amused soul
perched atop the low cottage roof
sipping amber whisky drink, tapping brogued feet.
People and places never flesh-out as you think
especially when dead, yet far from gone.
Julian Colton is currently CREATE writing fellow for Dumfries and Galloway based in Sanquhar. His first full poetry collection Two Che Guevaras (Scottish Borders Council) was published in 2007. He live in Selkirk.
