glasgow

Cathedrals of green.

The Tube is a tube,

shaking and stirring

party people. Quiet

path, river tunnels

under bridge after bridge,

archway portals to the

kingdom of clicking magpies.

Stark sky, maritime clarity.

I wake again, fold forward

to the lightening windows.

Palatial flat with ceilings

high enough for posh ele-

phants. Flat white and

sausage roll. The cold

warms like peat. Fiona

rises for Medievalism in

an Organic Chem building.

Now Selena to prep kimchi.

The immortal Persian sage

leaves her cat bed. Warming,

if only by degrees. Wild city.

City of the young, of demi-

gods grinning to themselves

in local lingua, untongued

save for street signs. Romantics.

Close the umbrella. Pull down

my hood, so I’m in it. Aye.