Old and new, side by side,
always riding changing tides.
Ebb and flow, rise and fall,
topsy turvy times for all.
Old church clock strikes at noon,
a smartwatch plays a tune,
then and now we measure time —
see how our times seem to rhyme

Peering through a old stone gate,
its face well carved, in prayers attired,
I saw a golden wall of late
before which stood cracked streetlamps retired,
their warming light now long gone
yet they still glow stubbornly on

In an aisle of a great stone church
by flickering light of candles perched
under finials and arches tinged with gold,
flags fly for blood shed on fields of old:
They wave with wistful dreams of war
and tell of great esprit de corps
in a house made holy for a prince of peace
whose dreams of love they speak of least

I didn't know when I'd see you again,
Four years loved and lost,
Right here.

Every time I leave,
I leave a part of myself behind.
My old self lived here.

Can I learn to love you again?
I watched lives get lost living here,
I lost friends and family here.
I cried and screamed here.

I watched people get married,
I saw relationships begin.
I laughed and smiled here.

No matter how far,
You never leave my heart.
Life took a turn,
And now I'm here.

I'm ready for my next move,
I can see myself growing old here.
But I also dream of leaving here.

The time has come,
The streets glow in the winter sun.
Auld Reekie, how I missed you.
It's good to be back with you.

Oh, Prince Philip, you have served us for so long,
For seventy years… The Queen’s Kephas, the rock!
Sometimes it seems that you have always been here...
Like a Servant of the Monarchy, like power, like glory!

Oh, Prince Philip, the son of the Greek Corfu,
You, the Danish Hamlet, you, the brave soldier!
Today your life has died out, today you go to sleep...
So to sleep forever… with God in a permanent covenant!

Your city is crying and the rain is pouring down hard!
Sorrow on the faces of the Britons... You died during the plague,
You left like Paris, real, in the morning, in the spring...

Where are you going now? What kind of images do you see?
What is there after death? Will you reveal these secrets?
Are you taking these to the grave, for yourself, unfortunately?...

9.4.2021.,
On the day of the death of the Greek, Danish and English Prince Philip, husband of the Queen.

You might as well ask me
Not to take another breath -
To climb to the top of Arthurs seat
And not stand with my arms outstretched –
To stand in the middle of an icy street –
In the depths of midwinter
And not gaze with wonder
At the cloud of unspoken poetry
Pouring from my lips
Utterly failing to warm my hands –
And ask me –
Why do I continue –
Look in awe upon something –
So natural, that gives me
So little pleasure in return
And yet enriches my life -
So indescribably?

at the top
of the National Museum,
there is a bed of Highland Gorse,
tamed by a rope of metal, and
given Latin names.

*****, moon white branches
barely hold
sickled leaves which
fall into gloam drenched soil.

transplanted, and
awkwardly placed,
between two concrete slabs,
it looks and sounds alien to the city.

displaced, amongst the dull
incomprehensible squeal of
tourists and gulls, the heavy
roar of dim traffic, muted
bagpipes and the occasional
camera click.

looking upwards,
the shallow blue north
of an uncluttered sky,
and the thin
uneven line of an aircraft,
divided in two.