poeming on my ancestry


Waiting on the Referendum

The kettle's on.
Coffee waiting
to be brewed. 
My Scottish ancestors 
would be befuddled 
by the gadgetry 
in my house,
but the kettle on the stove
is as old as can be. 

And I'm not my ancestors. 
Generations away,
off to Ireland, then
the Americas. 
The poor go where
the poor can go. 
My ancestry moved around. 
Where there was work
there they went. 

Back in Scotland, 
my far off cousins are voting. 
Cousins of cousins of cousins. 
And we turn our heads,
listen to the tea kettle
whistling.
Waiting to hear
whether Scotland's 
independence 
is Aye or Nay. 

And I can't say 
how my ancestors
would have voted, the ones
that moved, anyway. 
Did they retain their home-love 
as I do for California?
Or did they say goodbye,
final and breaking, 
once gone, gone?

The kettle's 
whistling. 
Hot water 
for my French Press. 
Coffee instead of tea. 
My ancestors 
might have been baffled
but in time
anyone
can get used
to anything.