It didnae feel richt tae waak by,
tae leave it gleamin in the loam.
I kent it wis his. The hand
wis anither maitter aa thegither.
Gowsty starfish fingers beached
on glaur lik aa the rest. But aat ring,
it wis his. The eagle, raised prood.
Jist a bittie chip aff ae wing. Scratted
ma hand, thon nicht, faan stars exploded
in frosty peace. An we daured look up.
Kicked a cloutie ba ower mune hard grun.
I gied him a Woodbine an lichted it. 'Danke.
Danke'. That's fit he said. I unnersteed.
Shook hands. An wissed each ither
a Gweed Eel. His ring felt wachty, barked
ma knuckle, drew bleed. Faan I jumped back,
he laached oot loud, pynted oot i roch bit.
I think he said his mither gave it him.
He marked oot 17 in the grun atween us
and smiled at me under oor stars.
I knelt aside his puir syped een
an couldnae leuk, as I squeezed it free.
It didnae seem richt.
By Sheila Templeton