1939 Poem by Jack Ingram

Down Glasgow road the wind blows cold and the Scottish blood flows hot.

And time, it seems to slow, like the decaying of a rose.

and noone knows the secret,

that only ancient men have known.

It is harsher than dirt in the fleece of farmers, this secret.

Heavier than iron.

Do you really want to know?

It is the reason the old wish to be young, this secret.

To be naive.

It is the reason old men whine,

Love died in 39’.