There was no work, after the war,
and younger brothers needing fed.
I had an uncle in Dundee.
My cousin Monica wrote.
She had come before and knew the bus,
the boat and the train.
I was nineteen,
I didn’t have English.
I did not even have Italian,
just dialect,
but in the chip shop
they were from my village
and in the church was Latin
so was someplace to start,
and in Perth were dances
and familiar food
and chatter in the rhythm of my heart,
and a young man
with kind eyes
and such a smile.
A good house we built
and three beautiful daughters,
bonny, bellissima girls.
And the rest, as they say,
is history.