Here is a poem, while parts of my hair are stripped of all colour (brown) in favour of red. I hope this isn’t mid-life crisis. I want to live past 60 and into that glorious phase of life where I don’t have to give a shit about what I say.
I hope this is me trying to grasp, in vain, to the last vestiges of a rapidly-dwindling youth. Hang on, that is a mid-life crisis, isn’t it? Well, sport car and a suit made from purple velvet, here I come.
Here is a poem.
I stop on the North Bridge
as dusk clouds, filtered
orange and purple, hang overhead.
possibly a tourist,
bumps into me,
smiling apologetically through dreadlocks,
patting his Global Hypercolour t-shirt covered
chest as he carries on walking,
fading into the torrent of festival-goers.
I stand in silence, looking over the old stone
barriers into the distance.
There is a black-and-red gothic-style
church? Cathedral? Whatever it is,
it blazes in the foreground of this
elegant sunset amidst buildings old and new and,
even further back, mountains.
All of a sudden, the clamour of the crowd
is drowned out by a crack overhead. The clouds flee
as a fighter jet blurs past, directly over the
church. Within seconds it has gone.
This was six years ago. In total, seeing the sunset,
the church, hearing the sky boom and glimpsing the
jet took less than a minute yet the memory has never left
me. Neither has what happened next.
I turn around and see to my left a street performer
walking towards me, a vintage mime.
To my right, a staunch old Scottish man rattles his way
through the crowd. Their paths collide.
The Scottish man glares with fury at the mime.
The mime tries to make light of this anger, a joke
of moving to make way but an invisible wall blocks his path.
The Scottish man barges past and continues on his way.
Just before he is out of ear shot I hear him say to himself
‘I’ll be glad when these cunts all fuck off home.’