Signal Hill

Minus two and still,
weatherworn Edinburgh 
leaves its impression 
through gloved hands,
though it feels no different
from the stones
beneath my feet.

At this height, 
the coastline is a blur -
buried somewhere around
the hazy highway lights 
that always seems to lead 
somewhere different, 
unlike the yesteryears.

Opaque, the water sheathes 
the world’s slumber,
with fleeting reminders
from storm-worn buoys
winking to their own 
understanding of time.

The culvets here are guarded,
bronzed and hollow,
with the monoliths of sovereignty.
I should have brought a torch,
so I might make out the faces
of the nameless -
a luminary to chase away 
the languid aches that always follow 
my every breath here…

While the peninsula sleeps.

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