The Brigs of Ayr

Just past dreich dawn, and rain along the Ayr, the pubs shut, gulls blown inland, no one there but me in soaked-through linen on the hump, hearing the swollen river slap and thump the old red piers. Then from the spate a throat of sandstone cleared itself, as if to quote, and the New Bridge began, bland as painted pine, brisk as a briefing, straight as a chalk line.

“Still here, old man? I gather you’ve been reviewed.
The findings were, I’ll spare your feelings, rude.
Non-compliant camber, parapets too low,
No modelling of future traffic flow,
No lighting strategy, no user plan.
The future is connective, and a span
Is not a place, it is a network node,
A smart, resilient corridor of road.
You are a heritage asset, propped for show,
Of interest to the sort of minds that go
To graveyards for the lettering. Engage
With the consultation at this stage.”

The Auld Brig let a long wave slap his pier
And shrugged the rain off his eight hundredth year.“I’ve had that brief afore, fae yin like you,
Aw balustrade and stucco, spanking new,
Wha swore he’d outlive me. Then the Ayr
Cam doon yin nicht in spate, and he wisnae there,
Gane doon the watter, lamp brackets and aw,
And ye gaed up tae fill the gap. That’s aw
I’ll say aboot the deid. It’s ye I mind.
Look at yersel. A hunner cables twined
Unner yer deck, fibre and gas and licht,
Ither men’s business passin through the nicht,
Lit council blue, monitored and alarmed,
And no ae mason’s mark, and naething warmed
by haunds. Ye’re infrastructure. I am place.
Lovers still stop halfway, and staun, and face
The watter frae my parapet, and lean
Their warmth on my auld stane. Naebody’s been
In love on ye. Yer verra hairt’s abroad.
Ye move them through. Me, I was biggit tae haud.”