A Poem About Scotland Poem by Ian Elwood

Neil tuned his acoustic guitar
and pawed languidly at a chilled glass of water.
He was, as I recall,
the only one in David's Folk Pub
without an alcoholic beverage.

He paused,
rubbed the silver stubble on his chin and cheeks
and strummed the opening
progression of a Scottish folk song
from half a century ago.

He prepared to belt out the opening lines
but faltered and stopped.
"Would you like to sing this one, Lad? "
He asked, looking into my eyes
like they were hazel roses
bound for Waverley Station.

I adjusted the collar of my carmine flannel,
fluffed my auburn beard and set my glass down
between a Dostoyevsky novel and my textbooks.
'I'm just an American student, ' I admitted.
'So you'll have to forgive me—I only know
guys like Bob Dylan, Jim Croce, and Phil Ochs.'

'It's alright, ' Neil said, fixing the beige cuffs
of his furry tweed suit (Under the dim lights
he looks like a Soviet drill commander) .
'There'd be no Beatles with no Dylan.'
He started playing All Along the Watchtower.

'There must be some way out of here...'
I sang, eying a Scottish girl in the corner
with freckles splashed around her nose,
black as the pinot noir in her glass.
'...said the joker to the thief.'

Later that night I spoke to her,
dropped ten pounds in Neil's glass,
and headed towards Talbooth Wynd.
'My name is Heather, ' she said,
bewildered at the gray cobblestones.

We were too happy to be in love
for the moment. The weather was cold
in a very Scottish way for reasons
only Scottish people can understand.
Heather, the national flower of Scotland,
gave me a tour of Edinburgh's streets
now swerving in drunkenness.

We were two hazel-colored roses
bound for Waverey Station.