H'work w/e 16.11.15 - WHAT'S IN A NAME?
Posted: Tue Nov 03, 2015 2:18 pm
WHAT’S IN A NAME?… Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet
He had just arrived from Scotland – he’d a brogue guttural and thick
and the kilt he wore that morning did a highland fling and flick.
He was on the beach at Byron and was gobsmacked by the view.
Yellow polka dot bikinis – lifeguard’s budgie smugglers too.
“Aaach I’ve no need to be wearing breekums beneath ma kilt
in the land from where I’ve come from all the lads are really built;
and for fun we toss tree stumps around – and battle still with swords.
I’m from the highlands of Scotland – names McTavish – I make boards.”
He was in the land that’s girt by sea the land of slip, slop, slap,
where sun and surf reign paramount and nothing wrong with that.
It’s the land where cheeky seagulls will pinch your fish and chips,
the land where coloured zinc cream festoons everybody’s lips.
His rough highland complexion – it grew redder in the sun.
His ginger beard and hair fair glowed – but not to be outdone
he strolled the hot sands manfully, his brow creased by a scowl –
when noticing the stiff sea breeze had blown sand on his towel.
“I cannae be staying here” he cried “I need to seek some shade
before my skin starts blistering of that I’m sore afraid
‘twas winter when I left the highland valleys of ma home
the heat here’s bloody awful and the sea’s a mass of foam.”
His Aussie host was somewhat stumped – “Well sure there’s foam on surf
and if you’re making surfboards here upon our Aussie turf
why would that be unusual? – I don’t see how you think”
“I make the boards for ironing clouts and they won’t float, they’ll sink.”
He had just arrived from Scotland – he’d a brogue guttural and thick
and the kilt he wore that morning did a highland fling and flick.
He was on the beach at Byron and was gobsmacked by the view.
Yellow polka dot bikinis – lifeguard’s budgie smugglers too.
“Aaach I’ve no need to be wearing breekums beneath ma kilt
in the land from where I’ve come from all the lads are really built;
and for fun we toss tree stumps around – and battle still with swords.
I’m from the highlands of Scotland – names McTavish – I make boards.”
He was in the land that’s girt by sea the land of slip, slop, slap,
where sun and surf reign paramount and nothing wrong with that.
It’s the land where cheeky seagulls will pinch your fish and chips,
the land where coloured zinc cream festoons everybody’s lips.
His rough highland complexion – it grew redder in the sun.
His ginger beard and hair fair glowed – but not to be outdone
he strolled the hot sands manfully, his brow creased by a scowl –
when noticing the stiff sea breeze had blown sand on his towel.
“I cannae be staying here” he cried “I need to seek some shade
before my skin starts blistering of that I’m sore afraid
‘twas winter when I left the highland valleys of ma home
the heat here’s bloody awful and the sea’s a mass of foam.”
His Aussie host was somewhat stumped – “Well sure there’s foam on surf
and if you’re making surfboards here upon our Aussie turf
why would that be unusual? – I don’t see how you think”
“I make the boards for ironing clouts and they won’t float, they’ll sink.”
How are we going to follow that (dare I ask) 
And I was relying on my imagination 
