Burns' night.
Two days old.
Still incomprehensible.
Still sewn in a sow's gut.
A tradition.
His granny said to his grandchildren.
'I am your great-grandmother and when he was wee he sat on this very knee.'
And now the grandchild says to his grandchildren.
'There once was a great poet and I sat on the great poet's grandmother's knee'.
Thank god for memory.