saturday night

and the moon is a slice of lemon above Edinburgh castle, Venus is bright and sparkling, a diamond in the black tea of Scotland’s northern night, and the streets are filled with crazy people, who in their day-to-day existance are actually quite tame, and now are doing bizarre things…hen parties, stag parties, cougar parties, they scream and puke and fall off their high heels and wander the streets looking for who knows what…just another Saturday night in Edinburgh…and I walk the streets home safe, knowing they’ll not bother me, they probably don’t even see me, so immersed in their own little reality shows…

yesterday, I took a bus into the heart of Scotland and spent the day sitting in a leather chair, once sat in by many world famous poets, in front of a fire eating cake and apples and tea, and talking about poetry and writing, with the poet-in-residence of Brownsbank Cottage, Tom Bryan. Brownsbank Cottage, a traditional farmer’s but and ben, a tiny two room cottage that looks out on sheep fields, a small forest, the soft, Scottish hills, was home to Hugh MacDiarmid, one of Scotland’s beloved/hated poets of the 20th century. Tom was generous with time, talk and praise as I read to him from the Year/Quintet… encouraging me to continue with my work, then reading some of his own brilliant work.

An afternoon of words, then a drive across through the borders, the hills greening, the heather chocolate and inviting, filled with new life, and then a bus home to Edinburgh and a soft bed… fine, really fine… a good day.


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