A Glasgow poem, sort of, for coming home.

Going back

There is sun now I'm leaving with an aching neck
but it has been there all along amidst the falling rain.
I saw a man pissing in it. While starlings

pecked at fresh vomit in the light, the perpetrator was nowhere
but always the marvellous green on the necks of the birds
was wonderful. Thrown off the bus, we walked the grid-map streets

in this sometimes-rain paying no attention to the direction of the wind.
There was sleeping in silence and club-footed pigeons I have named
Byron, all three. There were plenty things to admire

and extra security. There was sun all along but hard to see
for the misting rain and music. There was music we will never move
on from. There is sun now I am train-bound in the giant fading sky.