Lines Written on St Andrew's Day

The wind bites, sharp against my neck
and the cold sea-breeze seems to drip into my bones.
In a cave of unreality -
the shops display gaudy colours,
peacocks of the winter season; gold, red and green.
Glints shine from pseudo-metal
and lights flash from every window.
A multitude of people stride the pavements,
making a simple walk a strange fast dance
and the noise - the noise is overwhelming:
street traders, hagglers, harrassed mothers,
kids asking for this and for that -
for this now is midway Christmas season,
when tempers and money roll out,
but when goodwill has yet to run in.
Gone, now, the ancient holiday,
and who remembers the saint?
Andrew, the quiet brother, quite overshadowed by
braggart Peter.
A simple fisher man, perhaps, who can sy -
patron of Scotland, the white and the blue.
Perhaps he means nothing, not now when
October, Novemeber - all in thrall to Christmas,
and he is only a footnoe on a calendar.
Begone, you peacocks, and out! all you people -
for this is my day, my birth, my saint -
and I will claim this day for myself.

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