Scotland Invites Incomers Poem by Sheena Blackhall

This is Scotland, calling all incomers
Nemo me Impune Lacessit,
Thistle-speak, is now passée
We are extending a Highland welcome to all guests

Incomers matter. Their gelt fills the bellies
Of galloping horses and landladies
Train carriages fill to the gunnels with their weight

We Scots are practising our colloquial greetings
Our potted heid'slike roses, scenting the afternoon breeze.
Bring on the bagpipes, the drams, the miraculous cock-a-leekie

Incomers are not fans of suburbs or housing schemes
Only the cultural cities are remembered
Like a recurring tic.

At Tobermoray, the houses doze in the sunlight
Gulls, like Chinese kites are circling, above
Sliding downramps of air, come planes full of wallets

There's money in ruins, in tales of blood and thunder
In rainbows that maybe lead to a pot of gold

The diaspora return to deserted clachans
And the local pub their forebears couldn't afford

Scotland calling. We think we'll fit the bill
No woodworm in Holyrood's international joints

We are rewriting the national narratives
Hoping to shape the future
Sandpapering rough edges, ripping out weeds

Climbing, skiing, fishing, on the visitors' circuit
Plugged into history, castles house our creatives
Waiting to sell their wares in every room

Listen, , , hear the decisions on what to promote
Whichstars to polish inCaledonia's firmament