by Jaz Dunnichen

The Stygian dawn of Thatcher’s children

loomed out of the maw of the South the day

he spoke clear again to me by the Tay

this mighty Clyde built man of then

orator of another river’s ken

whereon he’d employed with time’s truth and lay

those ancient trusted Greek arts to inveigh

against disciples of greed and its yen.

Succinctly he voiced a selfless heart’s cause

heralded hope and sang a plaintive hymn 

of working dignity this man of pause

this denizen of the Communist rim,

this fair fluent fan of Jesus Christ laws.

No such fine ships in now’s zeitgeist and whim.