Edinburgh Buses
By alexwritings
- 4611 reads
Strolling around it’s not so changed –
Glasgow still has its Lasses
all cheek bones
and button-nose, grouted faces;
Edinburgh still speaks in masonry
and living rock,
behind stage-backdrop skies.
Semi-known faces negotiate roads,
frequent coffee shops –
voices and noises take their pitch
in the key of noon.
Yet slicing through the scene’s
murmured sounds,
I cannot help noticing
the buses –
their destinations
inscribed on their foreheads
with haughty purpose,
each one plying toward a place
much missed,
where a shackled memory
lays sleeping;
OCEAN TERMINAL
(where her and I wept the end)
CRAMOND
(where we sauntered one weekend)
MORNINGSIDE
(“where all became a burning mist...”)
Pleasant –
the unexpected
refraction of thought,
their laborious presence provokes.
And as evening weighs its tender jaw
on lambent streets,
now bristling with twilight enterprise
my gaze again meets
the bus’s: their brows
now showing in yellow
the towns
and memory lanes
this time
strapped with a warning –
of history’s dusk
and future’s mourning
in hideous glare:
Look at the past, of course,
But whatever you do,
Don’t stare
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Comments
Another amazing piece of
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Like your
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This is our Facebook and
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Wonderful piece, gf. I liked
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This is fantastic. Wish I
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How true, we can only stroll
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Stan's right on the good
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Great stuff
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Excellent; fine piece of
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