The Bridge

Purple dusk draws in
and they stroll
the same stretch
at the north end where
modern council buildings sit
on a corner of Bank Street -
incongruous against older
grimy granite structures
striking in their splendour
the road that is a bridge
buildings gripped close like
a medieval pagent bright shop
fronts apeing booths of years
gone by just no knights on horseback

Why do they return
maybe for their evening
constitutional or prayers in the Kirk
odd looking companions
I stand outside the Scottish
National Library creamy compared
to its dowdy cousins and look across at
this manifestation -

Barrie his dark hair carefully combed
thin gaunt face trimmed moustache
eyes which pierce all they see -
the dark jacket emphasied by white shirt
and large celluloid collar
a folder of papers under his arm
a small red headed boy at his side
dressed in straw hat and sailor suit
and just behind
a small grey terrier with head cocked
towards the pair

I shake my head
a figment of my imagination
this evening apparition
it feels another world away
from this Edinburgh and George IV Bridge

Or in this place of literary magic
am I seeing through layers of time
as they pass on down the street
I hear the echo of the barking of a dog
and a definite chuckle.

Samantha Beardon.