My mother was conceived
three months before her father
went to his grave in France.
In 1935 my father, out of work,
pulled last week’s paper from the bin,
found a situation vacant, moved
to another town, and met my mother.
We are accidental. I found myself
in a small town with Sunday bells,
a moor to the north with heather
and bleak farms. My mother sang
Dream Angus. Southward, the last
working horses ploughed. It was
Scotland. There has been time
to walk sorrowful Strathnaver
with a wife I loved, to love
and speak to warm applause
the wise comedies of Burns,
to give some days to music,
some to flowers, some to words.
Almost time enough,
these fortunate waking years.
Bless the new children
who will happen here.