On TV, they’re repeating Billy Connolly,
with his Britain, Ireland, Scotland travelogue.
His comedy, art, respect.
I have a book from the library.
British, Irish, Scottish poetry since 1945.
Cold moors and stones and canals.
Old wars, prisons, suicides.
Women both hopeless and whimsical.
The democratic voice.
The Irish poets resonate like a bell in my head.
The British poets explode like a shell in my bed.
The Scottish poets? They just leave me for dead.
First published in Malleable Jangle