By David McVey
I have become a stranger to this
Covid-closed city, an absentee.
Since March 2020 I’ve been twice;
the dentist and blood-donation.
No saltire-waving at Hampden,
no gigs, even in this great city of music,
no live theatre, no library hush,
no muzak-heavy shops, no city buzz.
Museums and galleries shuttered,
the city’s beating heart stilled.
Life goes on, quietly, privately,
or, caged like captives, on Zoom.
I long for the city’s colour,
its noise and clamour, its peace
and prayer. Where is the great, warm,
cold, daft, crazy place I know?
I want to run for a bus in Bath Street,
tread softly through the ancient cathedral,
catch a train at Central, walk in the rain,
laze over the papers at the Millennium Hotel.
Covid attacked the weak and the poor,
ruined lives and businesses, wrought tears.
It counts for less, but it also stole my city,
even if just for a year.