Mellis, Victoria Street
It was Edinburgh Siberia cold,
that east-born razor wind slicing,
piercing through my clothes,
and I, a Mellis virgin, that day
I entered the pungent chill cave.
Good shops are warm, welcoming,
carefully lit, loosening the purse strings
with smiles and well-informed wiles.
The space was dark, cold; the assistant
awed by her pedigreed stock, silent.
Yellow on yellow, primrose to new moon,
gorse to peace rose, orange to buttercup,
marble hard, soap soft, varicosed, aerated.
A gallery, a museum, an aromatic temple of cheese,
and I, looking for a lump of toasting cheddar.
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