'Rosine in Glasgow'

This language grows like rockcress from damp crevices

until it spills in knots from her mouth. God speaks it too

sometimes, in the Baptist church; and people at drop-ins,

in shops—all the foreigners who, in time, become friends.

The old breaks in her legs ache when it rains, remind

Rosine she has to keep moving, even when movement

brings on sharper pain. But with a woollen hat for spring

that drinks the drizzle like a sponge, a bag of food

from Destiny—today she’s almost running for the no. 40,

Mr & Mrs Munro’s Maryhill flat where she sleeps with

a bible tucked in the pillow of their grown-up girl’s bed.

So when she wakes with a racing heart, the words are there. 

Jane McKie 2013