What She Is

She’s the welder on the Clyde, The farmer on the Merse; She’s the stag among the Trossachs; The lamb in Gowrie’s Carse. She’s the rippling Eddleston Water; The Tay from side to side. She’s the unemployed delinquent; The toff in Morningside. She is Lallans in the south, Gaelic in the north; She is Pictish, she is Briton, She is Anglic, she is Norse; She is Protestant and Catholic, She is Muslim and Hindu; She is Mormon, Hare Krsna, Jehovah’s Witness, Wiccan, Jew. She’s the old crone by the fireside; The young girl come of age. She’s the drunken ignoramus; The wise and worldly sage. She’s the independent woman, On whom success is bound. She’s a favourite family recipe, From Mum to Daughter handed down. She’s the engine’s steady thumping; The computer’s gentle beep. She’s the newborn babe in Mother’s arms; The old man’s final sleep. She’s the speeding, sleek, electric train; The humble branch line station. She is the affluence of George Street, And social deprivation. She is victory at Bannockburn; She is Flodden’s bloody field. She is Glasgow’s great metropolis, And the farm at Lonelybield. She is Edinburgh’s finery; She is granite Aberdeen. She is empty walled old cottages, Where families once were seen. She is fiercely independent; She is timid, coy and shy. She is many things to those who care; And that’s the reason why, My thoughts are with her every day; Our hearts are both entwined; She is beautiful, I love her; She is Scotland, she is mine. (17th August 2010)