Brian McCabe
I’m na the sort tae clean the van
afore it gans in fer the m.o.t.
Let them see it how it is: sharned
and clarted wi glaur, like me.
Still I’ll shake yer hand and
bid ye a how-do-you-do.
I hae establishit ownership
ae yon fallen oak, fer yer fire.
I’ll deliver it roun the morn:
a tonnae logs, sawn and axed.
Meantime here’s yer kindlin:
that’s me – recycle a coffin.
When the grund’s turned ower
I’ll clear yer attic, yer cellar.
I’ll lay doun the foundation
fer yer whadyecryit – extension.
I’ll repoint this waa, fix yon fence,
then I’ll start on the rewirin.
The only advertisin I need:
the mobile number on the van
and wordae mooth. Pass it on.
My ‘Invoice’ comes handwritten:
village-primary-school-copperplate,
in a English the courts understand.
Fer peyin prompt I’ll thank ye
wi a pheasant ready plucked.
Or ye’ll open yer door the morn
and find – slumped agin the jamb
like the prodigal son – a sackae spuds.
Let me ken how ye dae wi them.
I’d be gledae a warm at yer fire.
A cuppae tea, a wee plain biscuit.
But there’s somethin I cannae thole
in how you serve me – like as if
there’s a thing broke in yer life.
It pains me I cannae mend that.
