Left right I march.
Feet blistered raw,
Men stagger wounded by beer and rain.
I tire of sly interrogations
And find high ground.
From graves I see
This city’s sprawl,
Great fortresses to the East and South,
Roads snaked around High Rises stood
Like rusty nails,
On dead drift wood.
We talk in codes
And riddles in Scotland’s Dear Green Place.
I remain a faithless daughter,
Watching the rot
From the inside out.
Copyright © Victoria Hamilton 2013
28 year old Graduate of Celtic Studies. Lives and works in the East End of Glasgow.