Rab Wilson of New Cumnock writes much of the time in Scots (readers may recall ‘The Great Stariski: a Legend o the Barony Colliery’, which featured here recently). But he employs Standard English in this charming nature poem, below, from his new collection, Zero Hours (Luath Press, £9.99).

BOY RACERS

Beside the Kirkhope Burn a stand of trees,

A mix of ancient beech and sycamore,

Green canopies unfettered by the wind.

This sheltered spot allows them to grow free,

So that their branches stretch out from their trunks,

In horizontal lines ten paces long,

That form a shady arbour where the flies

Can congregate and swarm on sunny days.

It’s here that the ‘Boy Racers’ love to mass,

Swallows; showing off in fierce fly-pasts.

This rite of passage must have gone on here,

Down the dendrochronology of years,

Generations stretching back through time.

Amazed, I stood and marvelled at their skill,

Their darting, twisting runs and breathless turns,

Like ocean hunters gorging upon shoals

Of silvered sardines numbering in millions.

The lazy summer air alive with insects,

Draws the Swallows in from every barn,

Each trying to outdo its feathered neighbour,

They swoop and glide, beaks snatching as they fly.

I watched them as the evening dimmed the sky,

August’s deepening shadows thrusting longer –

The call of African skies growing stronger.