Even depression

these days

is branded in London.

Mine is delivered

as a blank parcel to the mind,

its contents an image

of the Hanger Lane Gyratory System.

Edinburgh’s adhesive

is an altogether different kind;

like the day I left the

rainbow mist

of the Kings Theatre behind,

carrying my final bag

of toot from one Gumtree flat

to the next,

the corrugated heath

of Arthur’s Seat

speaking of sound in shapes –

an arpeggio of violets,

a minim of gorse.

And suddenly those charming thoughts

stood their ground,

and broke the backwash

of the Black Night’s wave.