Post on 15-Jan-2017
transcript
Grey over Riddrie the clouds piled up
dragged their rain through the cemetery trees
The gates shone cold. Wind rose �aring the hissing leaves,
dragged their rain through the cemetery trees
the branches swung heavy, across the lamps
Gravestones huddled in drizzling shadow,
�ickering streetlight scanned the requiescats,
a name and an urn,
What is this dripping wreath, blown �om its grave red, white, blue and gold
‘To Our Leader of Thir� Years Ago’
a date,
a dove picked out, lost, half regained.
Bareheaded, in dark suits, with �utes and drums,
they brought him here, in procession seriously,
King Billy of Brigton, dead, �om Bridgeton Cross:
A memory of violence, brooding days of emp� bellies,
billiard smoke and a sour pint,
boots or �sts, famous sherrickings,
the word, the scu�e,
the �ash,
bricks for papish windows, get the Conks next �me,
the Conks ambush the Billy Boys, the Billy Boys the Conks
�ll Sillitoe scu�s the razor down the stank-
the shout,
the shout, bloody crumpling in the close,
No, but it isn’t the violence the remember
but the legend of a violent man born poor,
gang-leader in the bad �mes of idleness and boredom,
lost in better days,
a quiet man at last,
So a thousand people stopped tra�c
a bouncer in a bet�ng club,
dying alone in Bridgeton in a box bed.
for the hearse of a folk hero
and the �utes threw ‘Onward Chris�an Soldier’ to the winds
�om unironic lips, the mourners kept in step,
and there were some who wept.
Go �om the grave.
Deplore what is to be deplored,
The shrill �utes are silent,
the march dispersed.
and the �nd out the rest.