Black Haun an the Weaver

Coin spun the air aroon’t an fell on the blue tattoo.
Black Haun cleek’t his bluebird ower the silver’t nickel.
He bade Chaunce to spik afore the Law steps in
tae spik o gravity, averages, diminishin returns.

“Heids,” says the auld king.
“Wull roll,” says the tattoo’s body
Fae far, far awa.
“We’ll roll tae the Brig Bar.
For rollin’s a’ we dae, an’ scuttlin’ boatles tull they’re din.
Goad am fu’”

The Weaver wis leavin the bus stop, takkin steps ontil
some ither terminus: ae step forrit, ane richt, twa left;
Black Haun grips Coin wi his heid in ooter space
an the Weaver birls back fae naewye, lookin for a brace;
syne they haud een anither, up, for want of ony better ward.

“Hey!” greets Jimmy Black Haun. “Oh, hello,” the Weaver says,
“Gie’s a haun, pal. Whit’s the chance o’ a bevvy
doon-by the piss-hoose wa’?”

Black Haun wipes awa a tear. Coin faas back intae the gutter.
The Weaver saves it an caas oot in trumph.
Black Hand sees reed and stummles efter. “Sees ma share!”

An thon’s the dance that rag-fowk dae, doon on their luck;
it’s nae for love they dae it. Wantin the richtfu means o fechtin
and the power o balance, they flaff aboot wi ire they dinna ken
an, gaun roon and roon, come to weary dites and twinin airms.

Black Haun beats the Weaver to the punch. Baith faa
in a fond embrace on the hard, dark stane.
“Bloody Hell,” the Weaver says, “I could murder a pint.”

The faces o the Coin are War and Peace: it spins the game
of chaunce an then it’s spent. Either wye its passin thirls
the embattelt tae een anither; and yet they’re mair dispossess’t,
or possess’t o reelin demons an their seeckness in the nicht.

Bruises forby, Black Haun and the Weaver drink till moonlicht
until they lie alane an face thegither the reed cliffs o Sober.
In a derelict maisonette they sing o Vino Tinto
an the chaunce to dae it aa again.

In anither place wi anither Coin they’ll shak the nichtmare oot
though they ken there’s nivver ony justice an, if there’s ony natural law,
it wears a tin star and his a black hole for a heart.

Oor back streets are mad wi gemmsters, files, aa the littert bodies
we’ve pit awa there shout the odds: “Gie's a shul’n for a cuppie tea!
Hey, mister, pal!”

An the Law says: “Move along,” fae the perimeter o a Draughts-Board hat:
his is the only Law remainin, an the streets are safe far his fitsteps faa.

So Black Haun moves along wi his brither’s help.
They were Weavers aince but noo they’re Stumblers.
“We are the people!” they cry but they’re tellin lees.

“Nae singing.” says the Law.

“Nae fucking chance,” quotes Black Haun as he spins his Coin.

© BH, 2019

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Performed in Tell It Slant bookshop in Glasgow for a Scots poetry event - Express Yourself.

Originally conceived in English back in 1987 in an imagined Dundee setting. Hence the image - which is Dundee Law at night.

Here's a later recording of the reading: