The real Rabbie
I first met Rabbie
when we were eight,
scarpering down our street,
barefoot, cold
and looking back laughing,
raging Mammy after him
like a shambling sack o’ tatties,
headmaster strap in hand:
“c’mere ye wee bastart!”
I loved him immediately.
Then that time we had stolen beans
pen-knifed out the tin,
two slices of Mother’s Pride
with no butter, no heat,
except for the mischievous sun
on his face:
when I fell for the bairns
of the whole human race.
14/1/23