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This afternoon I'd like
to present to you a poem

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in which I celebrate
Glasgow's cultural life

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in all of its manifold contradictions.

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Now - by way of introduction,

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I'd like to call to mind
that famous wee Glasgow rhyme

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that describes the four elements
that comprise the Glasgow coat of arms.

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I'm sure many of you know it.
It goes like this:

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"There's the tree that never grew,

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there's the bird that never flew,

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there's the fish that never swam,

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there's the bell that never rang."

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Now, first impressions,
that sounds kind of negative.

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(Laughter)

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In actual fact, it refers
to a series of miracles

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performed by our founding father
and patron saint, Saint Mungo.

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So it's actually a cool wee story,
but I'm kind of skeptical

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of this association
of Glasgow and miracles.

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You hear about it
in the arts all the time.

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People talk about the Glasgow miracle,

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as if our cultural success is the product
of some kind of divine intervention.

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It's nonsense, and besides,

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it fails to acknowledge
the talent, the labour,

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the camaraderie, and the sprit

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that go into making
our cultural life so vital.

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So in a small effort
to counter these tendencies,

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I'd now like to present my poem entitled
"Glasgow Flourishes."

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I hope you all enjoy it.

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There's the tree that never grew,

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the bird that never flew,

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the fish that never swam,

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the bell that never rang.

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Some would have it thought
that Glasgow's wrought from miracles.

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They're wrong.

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It lives in stone, souls, song,
and syllables.

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So if the tree never grew,
then it blossomed,

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Burst into the colour of a sunrise
over the Clyde,

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Flowered in the streets
where the pavement cracks,

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and in the weather torn fissures
of the tenement flats,

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whose stones,
if we listen to them closely,

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keep clutched tightly
the sooty echoes of our history.

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Brick mingles with memory
and every building in the city blooms.

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The Kingston bridge
and the Finnieston Crane

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flourish in the sunlight,

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or, more than likely, in the rain.

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And into this glory of
sun, stone, rain, and river,

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we are the figures who animate the frame.

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Like a Mackintosh rose,
geometric and organic,

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forms flow together,

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This tree, our city,
in its blooming, grows.

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And if the bird never flew,
then it nested,

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blessed with a blooming branch
bearing the burden of home.

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We took twigs tentatively twisted,
shaped, and sewn

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into well-worn nooks from
Parkhead to Partick

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and poised between past and future,
known and unknown,

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flourished toward the sky
from whence the rain still pours

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and it pours.

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It pours on all of us.
Not one of us alone.

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For our nests are connected
by the branches that bear them

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and each lends a lyric
to a symphony of birdsong

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that calls into the gloaming
of the encroaching night

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and look! From the top of the lighthouse,
see the whole flock squawking!

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We are the birds, who, in our nesting,

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take flight.

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And if the fish never swam,
then it fed,

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nibbled on the coral of culture
'til its grey scales turned red,

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enflamed by music, art, song,
and staying up way too long past bedtime.

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We have seen schools
form under [unclear] streetlights.

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Been born along by wild nights,
Scorned and too unruly

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But truly, also played the fool ourselves
Under the stars of the Glasgow school.

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Because we drank too.
Yes, we drank like a fish,

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as if to hold onto the night like a wish
when all our truths are a myth.

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But in the great cosmic scheme,
we're all little fishes.

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And here in this shimmer,
the city flourishes

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so we feed on what nourishes,
and together we swim.

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So if the bell never rang,
then it tolled.

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Told stories, told of the fishes,
the birds, and the tree,

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a whole territory told
in the day-to-day tales

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of those who chose to make it home,

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who chose to make it theirs.

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Where we are, where we speak,
and where we share our lives

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is where Glasgow lives,

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whether to flourish or survive.

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For this we know:

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No bagpipe plays a note
without its chanter.

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The pulse of our city is first felt
in what we call with love "the banter."

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It is a ruckus tune.

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Yet dawn defines another drizzly day,

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and this city gives clues too
of a quiet dignity.

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The town tolls at Central Station,
in the folds of our commute,

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A sincere and half-mute "thank you."

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Because we say what matters
when it matters,

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and so the bell rings on and true.

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The tree blossomed and grew,

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The bird nested and flew,

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The fish fed and it swam,

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The bell tolled and rang
and rang and rang.

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Some would have it thought
that Glasgow's wrought from miracles.

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They're wrong. It lives in stone,
souls, song, and syllables.

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Thank you.

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(Applause)