A blogging friend (Anabel who posts here) is off to Lewis in the Hebrides for a holiday later this year. I holidayed there with the Textiliste back in 2015 and we had a splendid time of it. I even waxed ridiculously lyrical in this post…
However what surprised me were some of the poems I wrote. This one I’d totally forgotten about, in a sort of sonnet form. It has a sort of universal appeal as a warning against giving into those urges to take a gift home as a memento of that holiday. How many times have I succumbed to that fallacy?
In gift shops around the world, the treasures there are legion:
Name tags, mugs, flags unfurled, they all define the region.
Many things you’re sure to find, when tourists begin to roam,
With cash in hand and half a mind, to buy something to take home.
Like, let’s say, the local booze, which tastes so good, and’s duty-free
It would be churlish to refuse, to take a bottle home, or three.
There will be somewhere, on a rack, in sets of square-shaped plastic
Examples of local musak, that sun-drenched ears believe fantastic.
The Hebrides conforms to type, like France, Sri Lanka, everywhere
A smiley face, melodic tripe that once back home brings on despair.
Hereabouts it’s the bloody pipes, accompanied by a tweed ensemble
Which frankly gives me the gripes, and nothing tuneful it resembles.
It’s not that I bear any grudge to this nation through some song
But if I’d been a better judge, I’d not’ve bought that tartan thong.