Old New Town

This city of steady solid columns.

Of cobbles, potholes and greying rains.

Whose wynds take you up, to aspire to better.

And lift you higher only to pull you down again.

Built on solid rock, the colder and the wetter.

Old swamp was drained and cows driven out the gate.

King Arthur broods with craggy chin and saddle hard

And spires and turrets, bridges of kings and ancient bards.

Its power grew, through banks, and income streams,

Where wealth amassed like shrubs in gated parks

And plinths, smooth and true, held up its greatest themes,

With patriarchal posture, legs astride,

Who filled their sporrans with civic pride,

From wise investment, innovation, ventures plied,

Volcanic plugs burst out of softened hills,

Where merchant donors, men of chiselled chins reside.

 

The bitter wind has hardened minds to flint,

And dour craggy faces cope with every threat

Huge skies show clouds of every tint

Tracks of steel in every mind are set.

This is  not a land of hesitation, trepidation,

No flowery softness or lacy trims, but as light so quickly dims

Dust or seeds fall on grey and stoney ground.

Instead it breeds

A sense of strength, tendons stretched and handshakes firm.

Tough as thighs in kilts or rugby scrum.

Strong in itself and take it as it comes.

For the frozen air numbs

Bland softness, bracing Baltic wind and lashing rain

From Meadows, Royal Mile, Stockbridge and off to Fife again.

Or whistling in from Pentland glens to Firth of Forth, leaves glows

In every cheek and biting sleet, hail or wintry snow.

 

Bitter winds, frozen history, lines, solid archways.

Marble steps and flowerbeds neatly trimmed.

This city with its perfect ancient vistas

Its tiled bars, cafes with hipster baristas

Engraved audit, statues and plaques of grand times gone,

Still keeps its folk in awed and bowed obedience,

Rebels few and far apart, its spikey spires

Point to bigger, better, grander schemes.

And all is auld and reeks of power, strength and dreams.

 

M x