Cuthbert’s Bones
by Oonah V Joslin
Call me Cade’s Road, call me Front Street,
call me Chest-ar-lee-street.
If the bones of Saint Cuthbert could rise tae their feet
they’d dance their way back here and stay,
play upstreet and downstreet Shrove Tuesday
and none o’ yer fancy Morris dancin’
may poles and flappin’ aboot prancin’
and none o’ yer lofty Durham tombs
but an anchorite’s cell and a grave for his bones.
He’d ha’ put a new ‘gloss’ on the gospel
kicked the Normans frae here tae doomsday
rapped wi’ the Jarrow lads on London’s front door
took sides wi’ the workers, supported the poor.
May the first would be Labour Day.
Aye, look what they’ve done to his memory
he, who cared nothing for worldly prosperity.
The Pygmy Giant 