29/06/2026
Not a foodie post but little poem I put together over the Scots in Boston 🫶
Many thanks to: .mass.bestie and for the video clips!
Pipes of Fenway park
From the back gates of Glasgow to the towers of Dunblane,
They set down their tools, finished their drinks, locked up the castles and boarded a plane,
A game had begun deep in the west with studs in their boots and a shields on their chest.
Their boys were alone deep in the west but behind them an army, with no bullets or tanks but of tartan and drums soon filed into ranks.
They sang in the air, in the bar in the streets they danced with strangers and ate only meat.
They sang on the river on the bridge, Jimmy, Duncan, Finlay and Mark they conjured a light then marched on Fenway park.
The locals stood captured eyes all ablaze at the sight and sound that love can raise.
The joy the cheek the heart the songs we are taught the world is full of darkness but we were wrong.
They invaded the courts the field the stands clutching a bagpipe and taunting the band shaking the players raising the run speaking a familiar yet unknown tongue.
The landlord surrenders, the cellar walls breached his taps are dry, yet the songs and laughter still clung to the sky,
The local girls fall with smiles and tears now cherry red lipstick fades into soft ginger beards
A fire that rang from the top of their pipes carries and carries into long Boston nights. All lovers of sports can only take off their caps and the old bronze statues wore new orange hats.
And our dear sweet leaders who bicker and toil over policy, votes, retirement and oil, could only dream of the good achieved in the west by the tartan army with love in their hearts and shields on their chest
With smiles on their faces and flag round their necks a power a politician could never possess, nothing to narrate control or tame just one human to human pouring into a game.
