TURNSTILES

 

 

Dull,ageless cranks and oily turns. A cold steel

push,anti-clockwise in anticipation, expectation

every timebut different then, off Florence Place

off Dunkeld Road,in cold skies, and bright days.

The bustlingblues in ear shot of Muirton aces.

 

A bustlingAsda’s now. Terraces of sell by dates

pitch views hindered by pristine aisles, walls

of soups, cereals and bargains to be netted.

There,the turnstile my dad showed me, the gate to

beinggrown up, following him, to follow the Saints.

 

Inthrough a gap. A cupboard door. A secret passage

blisteredblue, a Tardis stripped bare to a briar of steel.

A softputty face waiting, trapped in full moon cheer.

The murmurof passwords, an exchange of promises.

Me,squeezed close into legs, the big lift into acontraption.

 

A timemachine whirring into action, releasing me,

intoa new world, the land of my future dreams,

heartaches,and glories sunk into a bottomless heart.

To betrailed for years, through cupboard doors, images

on a loop,seasons lost in the sunlit absence of him

 

handingdown the password so when the crank

and turnsof a McDiarmid  Tardis pulls my son with me

intothe briar tangle, the turnstile lifts our respect

towardsthe rows, of my Dad, sitting with your memories

andin front, Willie Coburn with Drew Rutherford

 

up in thecorner, amongst a throng of ageless Saints

on awooden bench, white squared and numbered.

The perfectview brought from the old ground, loyalty

stitched in to therespectful wave of unfurled scarves.

Their souls steadfastin the crank of the turnstile forever.