Tracy Anne Harvey is a poet who writes maistly in Broad Scots. Her poems are aboot folk an their wee ways, granny’s, guid neebors, streets an breeks.
She has been published in Lallans Scots Language journal an has self published an illustrated poem book ca’ad “The Missus” aboot events in the life o the young Jean Armour.
She performs her poems at various events maistly in Ayrshire, but has been kent tae go tae Glesga an Embra an aa..She has recently been appointed Resident Scriever at the Robert Burns Birthplace Museum where she delivers Scots Leid workshoaps an generally hings oot. Her best kent poem is “Betty an Leanne Thru The Wa”....

CHRISTMAS CLAMJAMFRIE

Christmas Eve, dreich, wi a smirr o rain,
No a snawflake in sicht.

Buzzin roon the shops lik a blue arsed flee.
In an oot the fairy lichts.

Street hotchin wi thrawn faced mithers an greetin weans.
Heels clatter oan the causeystanes.

Dinnae taigle. Nae time tae fouter.
Lowpin oot the road o chiels oan scooters.

Peely wally faces, a souch o cherry vape.
Mind batteries an carrots an dinnae forget the sellotape.

Keekin oot fae ablo a Santa hat,
A pair o gleg een.
Hauns shoogle a timt tumbler.
Heralded by trumpets an tambourines.

Inside, fechtin ben the faux fur an fleece,
Wee mindins - pawkies, bunnets, breeks.

The lassie on the till’s gien it her Burberry perfume pitch.
Fingers swipperly swipe the switch.

Ootside, bags in a fankle, hirplin up the brae.
Christmas shoppin nailed.
Bring oan Christmas day.

LOWSIN TIME

Cross – cleekit,
Baukit ootside the travel agents,
Ablow an advert fir a Carribean cruise,
A wee wifie,
Happit in mawkit rags.
Haunds claspit ablow her chin,
Daurk een roused heavenwards.
A picture o’ piety.
Oot front, the ay timt polystyrene tumbler.

Doon yonder amangst the litter,
She kens folks by thaur shin,
As they clatter oan the causeystanes.

Nae need tae practise the airt o’ mindfulness,
No wi’ the cauld wind blawin ben her gowpin bains,
Tae mak siccar she bides in the present.

A chiel hunkers doon aside her,
Haunds oan his hochs,
Bletherin tae her, aw caunny lik.
Gart confused by sic compassion,
An no speikin the leid,
Her gleg een flit owre his face,
Afore gien him scant regard.
The chiel dours it oot awhyles,
Afore fouterin in his pooch fir some siller.

At lowsin time, she redds up,
Dichts doon her lang frock,
Haps her heidscaurf roon her face
Aginst the founerin’ cauld,
An hirples owre the street
Tae jyne her pal,
Wha’s din ilka shift but ootside Greggs.

Ablow the christmas lichts,
Gey gallus noo,
They stott up the brae
Wi thaur wee bit graith.
Wrastlin aginst the wind,
Airtin fir whaure’er haim micht be.

COPYRIGHT TRACY ANNE HARVEY