Edinburgh Elegy

His mother’s friends
Promised her they’d release
A film canister of his ashes
Near Arthur’s Seat,
Where I took his picture
Sitting at the top
On the brass marker that gives
The direction and distance
To places we’d been,
Or hoped to go.

Should I love one place more
Than Loch Lomond or Stranraer,
Now that he’s part
Of its pollen and dirt?
I don’t know;
I’m as new to this
As I was to the city
We climbed above
As it rained without conviction,
Thin clouds of mist
Folding in the firth.

Originally published in Migrants and Stowaways