“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I said. “Would you like to see some love poetry?”“Sure!” she said.“I have a short collection called ‘When Love Dies. How about that to start?”“Hmm,” she said. “I’m not sure. But let’s take a look.”“The first is called Festival’s End,” I said.

Festival’s End

Sleep on a little longer yet.Let not the day confront my eyes too soon.Still let me gaze a little whileon stolen shared serenitythat once was our possession as of right.And let me warm myself once moreupon dying embers of the flamesthat once burned incandescent in your soul. Sleep on a little longer yet.Permit me one more time to stand and gazeon blood red cirrus cloudsand gliding gulls on mourning winds;poetic swan songs let me pen a while.Collude with me in self deception stillthat you will want to read the words I write.

Sleep on a little longer yet;

until the morning steals the silhouettes

of castle walls and towering cliffs

and splashes careless colours on the day.

Allow me to believe a moment more

in fairy tales and magic spells

and dragons slain by power of truth

and love that lasts eternally;

at least until the city wakes

and traffic noise burns off the transient night,

till morning shines on towering cranes

that flaunt their rule on building sites,

and in aggressive self importance

break the flowing metre of the sky line.

Sleep on a little longer yet.Let not the day affront serenity too soon.Still let me stand a moment and pretendfrom vantage point of elevated peacethat Edinburgh still dances highland jigsand gives itself to passion and to play,postponing summer’s end another day.Let joyful songs still resonatewhile juggling buskers toss my thoughtsand catch my soul with elegancethen stop a while to bow for my applause.

Sleep on a little longer yet

For once again I weave my way

through winding lanes within my mind

between the players and their audiences

uncertain in my dream of which I am.

For once a time I knew myself

a leading actor on your cast,

but foolishly have yielded centre stage.

And now I stand by ticket booths

to count love’s coins and just afford

the cheapest pass to lowliest seat;

and thus take up spectator’s place

to watch the story of your life unfold.

Sleep on a little longer yetAnd, resolutefor now, I shall pretendand fool myself another lifetime morethat morning does not summon you,the Festival has time to runand we are not in Edinburgh on borrowed time.