When families with dogs have gone
back to their Morningside retreats
and waves begin to slap away
at Leith's reflections on the flats
the punks and drunks turn out
to watch the stars.
Among the shadowed concrete cones
their tide slips with a glossy sheen
where mussel blue dips into brown
and Forth asserts its in-between:
here punks and drunks are lords
and rising stars.
Beyond the headland gorse, a spot
where hours before, kids unwrapped lunch;
now violence bursts like nebulae
in green and white of laugh and crunch.
The feet of punks and drunks
grind out new stars.
Where stripped-out gun-emplacements gawp
at ships that chug where no-one cares
while burned pill-boxes shield the snap
and flash of cigarette-lighter flares,
the punks and drunks summon
their shook-foil stars.
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