A swirl of bagpipes
sets it off, notes
throttling each other,
fighting for supremacy
against a tartan sky.

Princes Street
Edinburgh
on a sharp November morning

the air cold enough to cut in slices
and drop into a Gin and Tonic
or perhaps a pint of Carlsburg,
amber light folded in on itself.

the Titians in the National Gallery
glowing still in my mind.

Flash of sunlight high on a roof!

Sniper!

Then the inevitable
car back-firing up the Mound
coughing itself upward
in stuttered jerks.

But old habits die hard.

Grenade! Take Cover!

I hit the deck in Princes Street
Gardens and roll beneath
the swirl of Pipes and swinging Kilts.

It’s true,
Scotsmen do go commando.