THE SECOND JOURNEY OF THE WANDERER
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By Robbie Moffat
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First published in SEPTEMBER 1992 by Palm Tree Books, The Quadrangle, Ruchill Street, Glasgow, G20 9NH
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Copyright 1992 Robbie Moffat
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ISBN: 0 907282
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This booklet is sold on the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be relent, resold, hired out, photocopied, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent.
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THE WANDERER
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It was the night the Allies bombed,
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massacred a ten-mile column -
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January was all but gone
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and February all but come;
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ground frost made the evening cold
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for war.
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There is no escaping blame -
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wells belching flames and smog;
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treatment plants clogged with oil;
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all in the name of God!
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Meanwhile, in Scotland,
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relaxing by the fire reading Crawford,
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kept warm by North Sea gas
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I thought of my oil-rig days -
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the wild howling winter gales,
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the ninety foot wrecking waves.
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Snow fell that evening. Perplexed,
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I set-out for the Wanderer's.
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I had been to see his mother,
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a woman of retirement age,
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she had told me of his place
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on the slopes of Dowan Hill -
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basement bed-sit, dark and damp,
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the type of room students take
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in over-crowded terraced streets
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let to Scots by prosperous Greeks.
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I found myself at Atholl Gardens,
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wet and dreary from the trudge;
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I climbed the icy-sandstone steps
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and pulled on a big brass bell -
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behind me on Gilmorehill
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the college clock chimed half-ten.
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A student came to the door,
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I enquired about my friend -
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invited in, she led the way
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through the house, down stone-stairs,
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to the right, along a hall,
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the smell of dampness pungent, strong
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until we came to a door
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the scent of incense masking mould;
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the student smiled, wished me well
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and left me there all alone.
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