I’ve found a motherlode of old poetry. This is one of my favourites.

Monday Morning, Dumfries

Walking up the cobbled street
As the town is waking up
My heels clack loudly, echoing
As I pass by shuttered shops
A door opens, an alarm beeps
Words are exchanged across the Vennel
As for once today Neighbouring shopkeepers meet and speak
While they’ve time enough to greet
They’ll soon be ensconced
Behind their separate big windows,
Time only for the drip-drip stream
Of customers.
In the cafe,
In Costa,
With it’s soft leather sofas
And hardbacked wooden chairs
Vacant faces stare
Monday morning stares
While the Barista splashes
Coffee and milk
On the counter.
It’s still early
Still too early
To be doing this for her.
The bin lorry skulks
Along the pedestrian precinct
Filling up on white bags
Blue bags and the nameless contents
Of giant wheely bins
From which it scoffs
Scooped up with it’s great metal jaw
Then tossing back into it’s cavernous maw
With mechanical abandon
How many times does it chew?
25, Like they tell us to?
Almost 9am
Strong black Coffee and a pen
Wake me up
At least I hope.
It’s Monday morning in Dumfries
At least the sun is shining

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