Author: Andrew Greig
Allocated postcode: EH8
Dissolved by dusk and lighter-fuel,
he carries night under his greatcoat,
spreads newsprint over it and floats
as jetsam down the Canongate.
The moon mines silver in the broken alleys,
on chimneys, slates and skylights beats;
a snell wind whines in building sites
and sighs up empty streets,
honing tears in the bones of night-walkers,
the quick and the dead,
fluttering the News over Imlach’s head.
Now city and country sleep,
only weasel, owl, lover do not rest;
Imlach groans once and passes,
without effort, without interest.