Awaiting Her Birthday
Holed up in a Scottish flat
all day from six to three,
stuffin' my gob with Vol-au-vent
and pots of English tea.
As ocean slaps the briny stones
and swirls the salty air,
I'd rather be in my own home
than sitting in this chair.
Too late to fetch a midwife,
too far to drive the quay,
While he's at work
up here I stay,
'til someone comes for me.
I pull myself up to the sash;
the window shares a view,
of children in their uniforms
with tartans green and blue.
They walk the steep, uneven lanes
and giggle as they play,
And soon at last -
my own sweet lass
will do the same one day.
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