I come from …

Some days, more than others, I’m reminded just how fragile memories can be. We spend so much time thinking about the future, and planning for the future. We spend so much time being busy in the present. But sometimes, it’s nice to take time out to remember where we come from.

I come from – by Fiona Dorchester

I come from Cumnock; a town that thrived on mining,

from long hot summers with the sun always shining.

From a tin-clad council house, set in a cul-de-sac,

from roses round the front, and tatties round the back.

From faded black semmits on the neighbour’s washing line,

from hard working pit men smoking Players and Woodbine.

 

From professional parents, saying always do your best,

from the long winter of power cuts and wearing an extra vest.

From scabby knees and skipping ropes and six kids on a bike,

from the year that all the other dads had to go on strike.

 

From sitting on the kerb side, making words from number plates,

from waving to the camera, home movies, Super 8’s.

From camping all round Scotland in a tent just right for four,

from breaking my tooth on the concrete steps, outside my gran’s front door.

 

From talking Proper, to family, and Common, to friends,

from plain biscuits through the week, chocolate at weekends.

From trimming all the long brown hair from Jackie’s favourite doll,

from sticky chairs at Sunday school and hearing pennies fall.

From singing Jesus loves me, and knowing it was true,

from the look on Mum’s face, when Dad built his canoe.

 

From big navy knickers, and rubber soled gutties,

from picnics, cremola foam, and lemon curd butties.

From scarfs tied behind my back and pawkies on string,

from a landscape scarred by mining, the slagheap, and the bing.

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