THE
CURLY PUDDICK
Secure
and shaded on his island stone, in the shadow o’ the lone ash tree, But
the puddick wasnae’ lonely, this gregarious little chiel,' Befriended
newts an’ frogs an’ sticklebacks, ‘Red breasties’, ‘Beardies’
an eels, The
Curling Pond was his domain, he was ‘King Horny Toad’ His
territory included Petrie’s fields, north to the Linn Road, An’
to the south were beech trees, wae rhododendrons doon the hill, Near
Scotty’s house, an then the lade, an then the famous Stanley Mill, An’
to the west were berry fields, bordered by Mill Brae, Guarded
by Clarky’s hostelry, the most famous o’ its day, An
to the east a steep incline, wae berries growing, dreel by dreel, Surmounted
by a canvas camp, lived Tinker Willy o’ Sheilhill, North
by west assorted houses, whaur tarmac roads were laid, Owr
that erstwhile football pitch, whaur Stanley Juniors played, Colossal,
fearsome, hairy beasts, chased a sodden, dubbined ball, Wae
insane and maniacal fervour, while 'Pom Pom' cheered them frae the wall, Wearing
leather studded ankle boots, an’ leather shin-guards lined wae cane, Fearless
red and white hooped warriors, made crunchin’ tackles time an’ again, In
this brutal, physical, dribbling game, ye rarely saw a pass, Instead
these beasts kicked everything, that was above the grass, The
Curly Puddick watched in silence, recalling all the things he’d seen, Bairns
fishing wae nets an’ jam jars, happy, laughing, spotless clean, He
saw everything that came and went, but never said a word, Camouflaged
against the stone, he could have been a turd, Observing
from a distance, he was once bemused to see, A
bespectacled freckled red haired lad, take solitary residence up a tree, Nightly
from the ‘Byre’ he’d hear, singing or a stramash, Then
watch Tinker Willy stagger by, or stop an’ make a splash, But
in springtime it was heaven, wae spawning frogs and newts, Nesting
chaffinches and wagtails, moorhens, mallards, coots, Yellow
primroses an’ daffodils, narcissi, catkins an’ sedge, Dandielions
an’ pussy-willow, white elderflower an’ hawthorn hedge, Summertime
brought excitement, the water warm and clear, Sun-burned
bairns and berry pickers, drinking Iron Brew, and Ginger beer, This
was the ‘berry picking season, the bairns had weeks off ‘schael’, Picking
‘berries into luggies, before emptying them in a bigger pail, Wae’
dragonflies an’ damselflies, skimming swallows an’ water skaters, Warm
evenings hatched a million midgies, the Curly puddick would dine well
later, Balmy,
sultry summer nights, made blood hot, ignited passion, Then
nature took a helping hand, courting couples would be the fashion, Half
dressed in the moonlight, an’ writhing on the grass, Was
many a handsome laddie, wae’ his bonnie lass, But
autumn wasnae welcome, wae the fun o’ summer gone, The
dread o’ winter round the corner, never mind, ‘On Stanley on’, This
was the ‘tattie’ season, again bairns played their part, Picking
tatties into hampers, which in turn were emptied in a cart, On
brisk, sunny ‘tattie’ mornings, the unmistakable ‘addictive’
smell, O’
earth being turned ow’r by the digger, made your lungs an’ heart fair
swell, Hard
frozen in the winter, bairns would come an’ play, Ice
hockey at a frantic pace, or take their sledges doon the brae, Bairns
o’ every shape an’ size, wae’ noses running green and yellow, Flushed
red cheeks an’ smiling faces, wid sleep as their head hit the pillow, Through
freezing fog an morning frost, the Mill bell’s toll would welcome
workers, Wrapped
in scarves an’ coats an’ turbans, grafters all, nae room for shirkers, Arriving
in buses from Murthly, Coupar Angus, Bankfoot and Blair, They
met wi’ the girls frae’ the station, Perth trains brought an awfie’
lot mair, They
linked arms wi’ the lassies frae Stanley, an’ foreigners lodged in the
hotel, Wha’
were nearly a’ Germans or Tallys,
but some English an’ Polish as well, The
Puddick had watched an’ listened, frae the roadside ditch on the Brae, Admiring
the friendship an’ chatter, that epitomised The Mill in its’ day, He
became sad though to witness the changes, man freely imposed on himsel’, The
destruction of communities an’ families, an’ wha’ silenced the proud
Mill Bell? The
destruction o' the family unit, the central feature of life, A
loving environment for children, nurtured by a husband an' wife, Aye
the Puddick watched an’ reflected, on mans destruction of nature, On
mans' destruction of man himself, what hope for any future, Aye
the Puddick watched an’ listened, his sadness maist evident tae’ see, Sitting
alone, on his island stone, wi’ a teardrop at his e’e. COPYRIGHT – Calluna Publishing
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