Extract from Issue 9
Doon at the fishin clachan, there's nae quines sheilin mussels
or baitin lines wi mackerel. Nae loons wi ticht neives nettin,
nae fishies, split an gutted, washed, satted and dried.
Naebody's birsslin oatcakes ower the griddle.
The kitchie fleers are spreid wi rugs, nae san.
Nae Fitty fishers fecht hame throw the tide.
The shacks an sheddies, oothouses, sit-ooteries
haud secunt-haun TVs an roosty bikes,
a puckle gairden gnomes wi beilin peint,
the antrin cat or bowfin gurly tyke.
Washin still skelps ootbye, ships dowp in bottles
on stoory windae sills. Glaiss fishin wechts
are door-stops, nudgin drift-wid ben the step.
This is the kirkyaird o the fishin trade.
The cottages like ceemetery merkers
hunker, backs tae the sea like auncient crones.
Aybydan, iver cheengin, the sea's dreich sooch
is Fitty's nearest neibour, an its auldest.
Inbye a playpark, a fishin boatie's turned tae a toy,
tae cairry a catch o bairns.
The herbour an the docks, the stank o dulse
is strang on the neb.
Throw this warm gloamin, doon the Fitty shore
a barfit quine, lang-shanked, for verra glee
kicks up the san that happit mony's a wreck,
the smachrie an the spindrift o the sea.