A walk of relief

When you find yourself vis-à-vis with the routine
horrors-turned-tattle, a walk down St Fittick’s might help,
even if the beheaded watcher’s house no longer guards
the graves from resurrectionists and unsolicited graffiti,
and you face either the leper squint or the rusting corpse
of a tanker abandoned in Nigg Bay. ‘But will it help?’

And how should I know? I’m only the poet.


More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com

A denizen of grey

When does a tourist become a burgher,
and for a pedantic, yet unassuming gentleman
like myself, would it be an insurmountable transition?
After all, when I walk down Back Wynd,
no one can guess one way or the other,
and two decades in Granite City have instilled in me
a certain taste for grey, whether it be walls
or headstones.