Mary Kings Close
Breath of the city,
fine grey mist, filtering
through cobbled streets, lurking
in dark corners and narrow alleyways.
Such is the echo of smoke tendril voices
rising silently, eerily,
as Auld Reekie remembers its history.
Ghosts watch from murky closes,
eyes clouded with heavy knowledge;
now only the stones weep, the tears
of those living deaths long washed away.
Plague and poverty lies dormant, hidden like
dirty secrets under layers of lace petticoats.
Let us display our pretty history
boxed with tartan bows,
the face of shallow frills and frippery,
painted doll smiles of our present day illusion.
No Comments Posted!