midnight motorway noises

Here, there's outside and up west.

The earth rolls, folds and unfurls as inside thunder rumbles low until it happens that hand clap dramatic and just round the next bend. The boy's in up past his knees and I'm giggling like the good old days. The air is silent soft smelling of seaweed and she. Ardnamurchan is the most westerly point in mainland Britain and out here I might be standing on an outstretched index finger resting where the world curves.

Here, there's friendly faces and flashed at steps.

Holiday snaps clap once and again as they sit, chin and knees, persevering with lunch. Please pay for photographs of performers. Big Al Catraz, the tiny escapologist and the burlesque opera reading the glossies all sit tense, sit tight. They two are waiting. Each joking for the other. They wait and wait until when the wind whips up and they're off again to whoops, whistles and ready applause. It's her birthday and her yellow tights make Edinburgh's old grey bricks smirk in spite of themselves.

Here, there's inside, Southside.

The new place in the new city. Empty shelves keep asking if there'll ever be more. Be patient, please! Promise. Promise. And an empty studio which is forcing me to write.

Here and there's me, all over the place. Dust settling, just.

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