I never knew he had the stomach

for such dining

but as looked upon my plate with curiosity,

and with what I took for the sniff

of disgust at my dinner

my youngest boy verged on manhood

as he asked to try a mouthful

of the once wheezing Haggis

that now lay dead upon my salver.

 

Outlawed across the water

and not seen with appetising relish in his Dudley

home, I had to commend my son

for at least giving it a go

and not taking aim with

a burning pitchfork and wild English folk remedies

to anoint the Haggis with disdain

and fear and loathing,

instead he verged on true idyllic discovery.

 

I prepared for the Dudley disgust, the moment

when I realised that none of my sons

had enough Scottish blood in them, the well having finally

run drip dry, squeezed through hundreds

of years of exile and Midland’s taste

being hampered in the pork scratching,

and yet the surprise was on me

and Malcolm of long ago was to re-awaken

in another generation.

 

“Where can I buy some not steeped

in chip-shop batter” he enquired,

and a trickle of tartan ran down my cheek

and hung Saltire like in the Mersey evening sun.

For where does this mythical animal reside

and raises it horns to defend against the mighty stag,

ahh where indeed I thought

is the Haggis address

for his Scottish heritage is now assured

and I just have to work on his Cornish blood now.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015