A swirl of bagpipes
sets it off, notes
throttling each other,
fighting for supremacy
against a tartan sky.
Princes Street
Edinburgh
on a sharp November morning
the air cold enough to cut in slices
and drop into a Gin and Tonic
or perhaps a pint of Carlsburg,
amber light folded in on itself.
the Titians in the National Gallery
glowing still in my mind.
Flash of sunlight high on a roof!
Sniper!
Then the inevitable
car back-firing up the Mound
coughing itself upward
in stuttered jerks.
But old habits die hard.
Grenade! Take Cover!
I hit the deck in Princes Street
Gardens and roll beneath
the swirl of Pipes and swinging Kilts.
It’s true,
Scotsmen do go commando.
