Going forward is difficult: a long,
Drawn-out trudge over an indeterminate distance,
Bearing ill-defined baggage.
Others do not help. Each has
A never-ending offering of advice, seen
Always from their own, not my experience.
No. The only way to examine your beliefs is
To ask yourself.
Time suffered is the only reliable tutor.
I do not claim that being a Scot makes me special.
It is simply a fact. Some dispute this: “Why
Can’t you be British?”, they inquire. As if
One’s identity can be changed for
A more fashionable coat, at the insistence
Of a girlfriend. But the Scot
Is still there, stuck at the root
Of my being.
Not from Blood.
Not from Soil. But from
A lifetime’s earned affections. My community is me.
Not All the World’s whiney, entitled, Englishsplaining
will lessen the sting of your assumed
Superiority. I am:
One who loves, in a state which neglects its weakest.
One who admires difference, in a country which fears it.
One who craves inclusion, amongst those frigid to a stranger’s embrace.
An individual, amidst the cowering crowd, bright and virulent.
Your Wassail-Cup brims with the blood of innocents,
past and present, and still you say
Your handshake, limp as any hypocrite’s.
Your values and inducements an invitation to betray those I love,