Kenneth C. Steven
Edinburgh, 1991
All those I knew were restless, yearning
Change and freedom;
We who were still North Britain, the knuckle-end of England,
The last of an empire that had lain caged and hungry,
Chained too long. Nights burned with frost;
Down closes, through the dark gulleys of lanes,
History swept like a horse, its hooves
Sparking. In the back streets
Behind ambered windows of pubs
In the wolf cold of November
The whisperings scattered like bits of flint,
Took shape, fired, flamed with blood and anger.
When we went home
In the first pink hours of the morning, our heads drunk
On dangerous dreams
The castle crouched above us like a lion,
Its eyes lit, its eyes raging.
Page(s) 39
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