Archipelago from Archipelago by conrad molleson

Trapped by a Scottish downpour that’s already lasted centuries
we’re outside Poundstretcher’s, stuck in the bus shelter.
Here the heavens can fall only so far, pooling
into the shallow rooftop lake inches above our head.
We wait, and dream of gondolas.

- Some rain, eh? says one man, gazing upstream to Surgeon's Hall
and downstream to the Tron.
- Call this rain? Says another, gobbing into the flood
(he’s ankle-deep and loving it).
The cistern that was flushed empty long, long ago
is only now starting to re-fill - soon the Castle’ll have a moat,
tides’ll break upon the shores of Princes Street, developing a taste
for plate glass windows and Georgian stonework . . .

- These gondolas? A woman asks.
- Aye?
- A new Transport initiative? An integrated system with the buses that -?
- Ye’ve seen yer last bus.
- With the trams then, so that –
- Trams! (another gob mightier than the last) Gon-dol-as, I’m telling you!
Our only hope in this damn climate. Fleets of them,
flotillas, convoys are lining up along the City Bypass.
We’ll hear them serenading nearer when the time comes.
- And the rain?
- Ye call this rain?

Meanwhile our city drowns – an underwater gridlock of good intentions stalled,
rusting to a standstill. There’s rumour of a Works Department plug
that might get pulled.

Like it or not, we were all born yesterday. Who can tell what this deluge means
to the clans of Scottish fish patrolling their puddled wee lochan
above? Theirs is a soundless ceilidh.
When the waters rise enough to flood them out, will they glide off
with a tartanned flick of tail, to swim the Gardens,
the New Town, Leith and out to sea?

Leaving us to develop gills ourselves?

• World
• alt folk
• alt folktronica
• contemporary
• folk
• poetry and music
• world
• world music
• Edinburgh