Edinburgh ('Auld Reekie')

Born here, never to remember that Thursday afternoon.
In the hottest July. Baby lungs snatching up their first
Hot hospital breaths from meagre North Sea breezes
Planing over Arthur's Seat.

Canterbury

Raised here. Climbing sappy trees in the dappled suburbs.
Dusty church on Sundays. I buried my head like More,
Having seen utopia, an island of school playing-field
Afloat in timeless summer, pass the Eleven-Plus. Loving

Then dreading school. Claustrophobia in the Roman walls
Locals trapped with tourists. Where Marlowe was christened,
Between Woolies and McDonalds, Pic'N'Mix and Happy Meals,
I waited for Chaucer who never arrived.

Bangor

Moved here. To a city barely a city, to an island.
Mountains to learn and a language to climb, too late
To gain a foothold, too soon to leave. Schooled in
Country drugs by best beloved friends.

Awoke each morning to sea and mountain. A wall
Against invaders. Salt and manure at Christmas.
Fell in love. Properly this time. Had it all friends
Home family girl had to leave.

Chester, Manchester, Liverpool'¦

Where are we? We are in the suburbs. Again.
Weekends at the zoo or Borders and the cinema.
Popcorn. Elephant shit. Jaguar's urine marking
Its territory at the corners of a cage.

Glasgow

Belonged here. Tennents brewery fume at Charing Cross.
Chips and cheese at three A.M. on Sauchiehall Street.
Faint perfume of the Kelvin in its lazy grove. The rain
And the rain and the rain, following home home.

You can't smell a song. You can't sing a kebab.
The poetry is in the gutter, unfinished. Pitta patter.
Canopied smokers made the pavements chatter.
Graduated like a colour, an odour fading into life.

Newcastle

Hid here. In bottles of brown foaming liquor tang.
Tyne dragging a new generation closer to the future.
From a past stinking like a bad joke: An Englishman,
Scotsman and a Welshman walk into a kingdom.

Glasgow

Barcelona Florence Dublin Glasgow. Los Angeles Rome
Las Vegas Milan Glasgow. Cambridge Paris Venice Glasgow.
The baby's nose is big and broad now. The lungs are artists,
Drawing breath from memory. Breathing through its mouth.

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