Addressing the Pigeons

And on the train home kicking and cheering,
the poem opens itself up again,
in-between the man and his 3 headless cans.
Naturally curious, he says when he dies,
He’ll come back as Ben Nevis
And maybe we’ll all be too busy to notice
Or maybe we’ll all be too pure. dead. gorgeous

Looking up from yourself at Central Station
Where everyone is your pal,
or your pals brother,
or your pals brothers pal. Or a pigeon
or a pigeon’s pals brother?
All being good to each other
Now, that you are older and returning,
at the halfway mark of home,
and that big sash window in the Scottish sky-

Everywhere imbued with a glaikit sense of wonder,
like a friendly foreigner in your hometown-
So far away from the poem are you now,
that the slabs in those big sandy buildings,
all seasoned with rain’s salty affection
Have sprouted little fields in the cracks
Where all your school friends
have been busy growin up sideways-
And you are not wee anymore.

You haven’t been for ages. No.
Not since you stepped off that platform,
at the stop, with the loch with your grown up friends
all aged soaked with a new thing like peace. Like home.
Drowsy in the grass, Maddie’s hungover milk thistle
in holy pockets where Nature’s big light pours in.
Look up from the poem. To the top of the hill.
Spot that starry old man addressing no one
but the pigeons.