People flock to the open land, stand
when the sun’s out to play on a blue sky day.
For hours on end, sitting in this green scene,
soaking up the rays in fourteen degrees.
By the way people who spew the facts act,
It’s easy to get the impression the sun is never near here,
that the green Scottish landscape is always full of rainy and grizzled gray
Turning pale white skin into a transparent blue.
In the parks men of all shapes, sizes and guises
bare a colourless torso, more so
than the climate gives them an excuse to,
while girls lay semi-bare chested, with nestled dark glasses over their eyes.
In their gardens, old folks hope
that the sun will stay to play,
and gift its rays for another heyday
where preening and pruning, mowing and sowing can commence.
Part time thugs in football colours, remove their dirty shirts,
and tuck them into felt belts,
swaying with a fast food shaped swagger dagger,
in an attempt at some kind of masculine dandelion posing.
The irony is that it’s not even warm – scorn:
it’s mild in the sun and breezy in homemade shade.
Yes, the sun makes the Scots do funny things,
just wait til the summer, when they’ll say it’s too hot,
And demand autumnal austerity, and warm winter woollies.
In reality, the schizophrenic weather is all us Scots have got.