Author: Roddy Lumsden
Allocated postcode: EH1
I think of Bobby Shaftoe, lost at sea,
his buckles snagged on the wreck in the wrack,
Johnny in the ditch, one scarlet ribbon biting his neck,
who never did make it home from the fair,
Tommy Tucker singing the song of a slashed throat
and Boy Blue, found in the haycock, of whom it was said
he looked for all the world like he was sleeping, not dead.
And I think of my friends and of their friends
and theirs, sitting round the tables in Black Bo’s,
not one moral left between them and I suppose
that I must soon finish this and join them,
all the things we know but cannot tell each other
about each other in this half-life of secrets,
the summer night music of now and what-comes-next.