Tenements blush as weather
changes the colour of their skin.
From their eyes we've seen
hogmanay explosions
dye small corners of our sky.
But now, all around - in gardens;
through mushed tracks
by the Hermitage,
hard with frost; the hostile
trickle of the Braid burn;
even the overgrown rails
of Morningside Station -
the hush of midnight whispers.
A murmur rippling through
the silver edged blades
of grass, as they bathe
in muddled starlight.
The smell of smoke hovers
over these slush-scarred streets.
Footprints weigh heavy
as the ground clings to my feet,
glutinous, greedy to stick
close to anything warm.
