" title="Painted, spoken Robin Fulton
The Grassmarket, Overcrowded
Down West Port, Victoria Street,
Candlemaker Row we have flowed.
What if the dead of centuries
had not moved out: where could we stand?
What if the next life has no room
for all of us, dead and living
in a jostle heading nowhere?
We live here forever today.
I’m one of the crowd so the crowd
wouldn’t hear me, wouldn’t see me.
Willow-herb seeds, white threads, drift in:
an outside world has found us out.
The living crowds keep on talking
but their voices send out silence.
The white seeds fill the air, dry snow.
The air fills, will never be full.
The living crowds turn transparent
as far out of sight as the dead.
The dry snow is not going to melt.
It won’t touch down in my lifetime.
Page(s) 4
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