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.