Royal Mile

this close, reeking gothic that we weep on first arriving and then weep again when we’ve been away too long.

I’m haunting this close in moments of weakness, face turned down like a bluebell. Yet all the other ghosts seem to thrive in the stoor of damp, grey air.

I bob down the close, dampened temper tramping through horizontal rain. I’m seeping downwards through these cracks and float like a stone into the Nor Loch