Glasgow

The dear green place is
dear and green no more
as I ninehundred
miles or more lie
and picture her
caged and waiting
to be given
new legs
she cannot use.

And I, stricken, let
too loose in a
world I cannot buy
or sell, call and call
to no avail. The
poor soft thing
waiting
for a poor

soft hand to
reassure.  My
doors, my doors, where
do they lead did they
ever open right? I
cannot tell. The
corridors of power have
passed me by

and in this time I am
caged and waiting to
embrace a destiny I
cannot feel. He never came
and I lost too much, I
reel, I have
cried my cry and
all that is
left to do
is try.

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