The Burgh
By Angusfolklore
- 265 reads
Like some other Scottish places,
this town abides, if not dilapidated,
then resting like a lean to on its past.
The sadness is in shadows that never go,
cannot be modernised and improved,
that daytime never lessen, unresolved,
a hangover of history that even
the internet cannot erase.
Some different people here now,
but not really. Always nearly
the same as it ever was.
In the doorways of places
that are locked, faces of men
who may be traced to would be
saints of a thousand years ago,
ancestors ruined by Reformation,
others befouled by allegiance
to Rome.
This land lost religion’s game.
Sandstone capricious as crimson
rowans, honeyed as bell heather,
step gables high above in black granite,
stairways to the sky for the Others
not now spoken of.
I have lamented you in these streets,
we who will never meet again.
The over real facades masking
a crazy paved patina
in the buildings’ souls beneath.
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Comments
granite faced and not
granite faced and not forgotten those saints of the reformation.
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"Sandstone capricious as
"Sandstone capricious as crimson
rowans, honeyed as bell heather.."
Such a quiet, haunting lament.
Some gorgeous phrases, especially towards the end.
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The thing I love about your
The thing I love about your writing is that it always feel so rooted in time and place, but at the same time you bring a perspective that makes the reader rethink things taken for granted.
Some different people here now,
but not really. Always nearly
the same as it ever was.
These lines in particular really resonated with me. A real insight into the nature of a place.
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