Clydebank-based Eveline Pye tells a fishy (but apparently true) story of her native town.

The Singer factory was one of the twentieth-century landmarks of Clydeside. The poet herself is a mathematician and statistician.

SINGER FACTORY

When four faces of the giant Singer clock,

with minute hands the size of two tall men,

crowned Kilbowie Hill

and women reeked of machine oil,

the factory warmed the Forth and Clyde canal

so steam rose from the water.

The story goes that a pet shop owner

poured his fancies into the Nollie.

Purple shubunkins, gold ranchus,

lavender telescope eyes,

red caporandas, orange lionheads

thrived in the warm waterway.

Busloads came for a day out

to feed the fish on mouldy bread.

Rag-and-bone men hitched their horses

to the railings and left

with wee goldies in plastic bags

to trade for old clothes and threadbare linen.

When Singer closed, the canal froze.

Bankies scattered like a shoal of perch

escaping from a supermarket trolley.

Beyond landscaping and swans,

the flash of red Clydeside persists.

They are still here, swimming under the ice.