XXIV. The Meadows A storm is blowing through. Aidan. Huge gusts shove children in the playpark, they stagger – little sozzled people – then regain their footing, run. Shouts can’t be heard above the blasting storm that rips through trees, strips boughs, steals hats. The pink curly wig on the girl with fishnet stockings is … Continue reading The Meadows, Kitchen Table
XXII. St. Stephen Street Here men wear trousers chosen for the fruit they eat – cherry, lemon, plum, and apricot. Stock fashion. Plaited belts, hair that tickles silk cravats (in paisley print) tucked into shirts (two buttons open), gold rimmed spectacles, pocket squares poke from Harris tweed. Men who say, ‘brisk breeze today,’ buy croissants … Continue reading St Stephen Street, Water of Leith
‘It’s all well and good, this poetry phase you are going through, but please tell me you’re nearly through it. What’s it all about anyway? All that wandering and maundering. And those ghosts? Are they real? –By which I mean, I know they’re not real, but do you think they’re real? When are you going to get this poem … Continue reading Something Simple
XIX. St Cuthbert’s My plan: to gaze on David glazed in glass bejewelled, a rarity from Tiffany’s. Slingshot held low on pebbled shore, he glances over, searching for Goliath. In the background, flags wave triumphant, God’s inspiration, a spur that we can conquer, vanquish beasts. But today the church is locked to keep at bay … Continue reading St Cuthbert’s, High Street, Lawnmarket
XVII. Old Calton Burial Ground Ensconced behind a ferned wall, moss clad and lichen laden, lie this city’s ancestors. Tombs, mausoleums, marble headstones, monuments in granite obelisk, all stand – or slump – in terminal decline. They tilt and lean, bereft of those who grieved them. No solemn mourners now, they’ve been forgotten. Slaters, snails … Continue reading Old Calton Burial Ground, Princes Street
XV. Bruntsfield Each Tuesday, I wait for niece and nephew by Gillespie’s gates where flocks of youths migrate. A flow unstoppable, torrential surge of students off to colonize, with laughter, leafy laneways of this southside’s suburbs. In pairs, in gangs, chatter erupts, calls of, ‘wait up!’, ‘see you, Cam’, ‘call me tonight’. A lucky dip … Continue reading Bruntsfield, Blackford Hill
XIII. St Andrew Square Bring back Highwaymen! Have them roam the streets. Have them pistol-pin us with the order, ‘Stand and consider!’ Pay close attention to the open sky. Never lie. Sit on the stone benches bordering St Andrew Square. Mull, ruminate, notice the steel-toe-capped booted, yellow-vested builders eating sandwiches under high-plinthed Henry Dundas, ‘Grand … Continue reading St Andrew Square, Eyre Place
XI. Holyrood Park Freedom reigns in Holyrood behind the Queen’s big house. Wide-open space, grass to roam barefoot, feed ducks, kick balls. A woman in a leotard – small waist, wide hips – attempts to wheel a hula-hoop along her arm across her clavicle and back along the other arm. Every time, she fails. I … Continue reading Holyrood Park, Arthur’s Seat
VIII. Easter Road My stomping ground is Easter Road, a place of withered leaves, stubbed butts, strewn rubbish, and the same squat bulldog lamp post tethered while his master buys a macaroni pie. A bookie’s, two booze shops, three options for tattoos, and a bakery with sourdough for £6 – can’t see that lasting, not … Continue reading Easter Road, Abbeymount, Meadowbank
VI. Royal Terrace Some habits punctuate my days, like sunset walks to Calton Hill with robin, rat and wren. I’ve met them all, housed happily in hawthorn hedge, that neat-clipped edge to Royal Terrace with its high and haughty ‘cannot-help-it’ tinge. Enough to say, I saw a couple dancing there beneath a crystal chandelier. A … Continue reading Royal Terrace, Calton Hill
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