Lang Watches

by Jean Massie

They aye come late at nicht,
the speirins doots and dreids,
wonderin whit thir daein noo,
an if they are aa richt.
Waukrife I the wee sma oors,
the mind howks dowie thochts o
things ye micht hae said an didnae
things ye maun hae said and cannae.
Grouin years flee bi sae swythe
thir isnae time tae ken them weel,
then, aa at aince the ties are severed
teen-age wounds are ill tae heal.
Dawin brings a letter - airmail
wi a fancy fremmit stamp;
this is aa it taks - at daylicht
tae fleg doots oot baith fause an rale.

They always come late at night,
the questions doubts and dreads,
wondering what they're doing now,
and if they are all right.
Wakeful in the wee small hours,
the mind digs out mournful thoughts of
things you might have said and didn't
things you should have said and can't.
Growing years fly by so swiftly
there isn't time to know them well,
then, all at once the ties are severed
teen-age wounds are hard to heal.
Dawn brings a letter - airmail
with a fancy foreign stamp;
this is all it takes - at daylight
to kick out doubts both false and real.