Here is a city of granite and bones;

ground by pestle and mortar,

minted and pressed, hidden under split tongues

to pay the first bus fare

to take me to the edge of town.

Here, charcoal dust settles in our lungs,

and crude-oil-black eyes wander.

O Saturn, with your granite jaw,

and teeth like broken glass

know we’re hard to swallow, harder to digest.

Among the decay there is magic yet;

found between sips of black coffee,

and in shelves stacked with legal periodicals

in the sun-flooded library, where pages whisper

‘Seek and you shall find’.

Won’t you let me take you Deeside

where the grass is green,

and the wheat pours down the hill,

like liquid gold into a sea full of blue.

My hair is longer now, to show that time has passed.