Poem for the day

It's Cowal Games time. I am sitting with the study window closed against the sound of pipes drifting down from the park; it's been three years or more since the bands stopped marching up Argyll Street in full blast and the relative peace is welcome, living where I do in earshot of the road. The promenade parking, I can see, is already a solid line of camper vans and buses. But last night, well after midnight, I saw some (presumably) young people walk past our house - one on its own, and three on the other side of the road, laughing. The solitary one, however, had a phone, working - I could see the green glow from the screen - and it struck me how the use of a phone is the new cover for solitude. Like Ophelia's book - remember? Colouring her alone-ness.

Anyway, feeling just a little like Edwin Morgan's "accursed observer", I wrote a poem. You can read it here.

Avoiding the Games

It's Cowal Games weekend. The sky is a uniform grey, though it is not actually raining. It has been thus for a week now, and there seems no reason to suppose the sun will ever reappear. The Firth is glassy calm, and there are more ferries than normal, though the Waverley has been and gone again. Even through closed double glazing, I can hear the sound of the pipes. At least I was not wakened by the bands marching up the street to the stadium; apparently the pipers have decided it's a mug's game to be soaked before they compete and have taken the sensible route - the bus - to the competitions.

If I were to open the windows, I would hear the unaccustomed noise of far too many people in the main street down the hill. Mercifully I can't actually see the main street, but ever since Thursday evening there has been this sense of restlessness, of voices in the night, of feet and talk. The cars have been diverted, and every street around the centre of town is choked with parked vehicles. Later today, there will be an eruption of bedlam, as if an invading horde were approaching, as every pipe band that ever was marches from the stadium to the pier playing its own selection of tunes. The effect is terrifying and the noise goes on for hours, punctuated by wild yells and cheers. Because I have on occasion been there to watch an infant Tosh leading a band down the road, I know that the cheers mean some drum major is chucking a pole about with unusual vigour and/or dexterity. And because I have been there I know that the miasma of the pipes will be all-pervading - the smell of the inside of thousands of bags.

This evening, I shall not be there. This afternoon I shall head for the hills. And on Monday, I shall once more venture down into the town which for now does not feel like home.