I have dreamed of a black car that shimmers and drives
Down the length of the evening to the carnival side
In a house where regret is a carousel ride
We are spinning and spinning and spinning and now
It's been brilliant weather here of late, cool and rainy mist in the morning drenching from the heavens opening up into a slate gray-blue ceiling lined with purple saffron and intense orange, almost magma-like as the sun crests spilling outward onto the hills at Loch Lohmond to the west. It happens like this every morning just in time for me to approach the corner of Byres Road past the Botanic Garden, the scent of spring evolving into autumn wandering into the intersection and mixing with the gasoline and oil and pavement of passing cars as they splatter rain water up and onto the cement sidewalks and ornate rod iron fencing guarding the garden entrance. Each and every day I stand there and see the sun slant through the steeple windows of an old gothic church now renovated and filled with a few pubs and dinner theatres, igniting a hallowed part of the world boiling over with magic unlike any other. It's absolutely peaceful amidst the heavy morning traffic with cold air whipping up the back of my coat shivering my spine and hairs along my neck as I hear the music of the city tapping against my feet, a gentle thud of tribal throngs. The land itself exudes something long sapped out from the ground stateside. It's no wonder people seem to seem so unarrogant yet proud when pride itself is in the soil, it gave birth to everything here in a quiet majesty, an indistinct regality that was never reserved for the blue blood alone. A nation of warriors indeed, silently carrying themselves as kings without thrones, a nation of equality amongst the inebriated, dark princes and even darker dames. It's the charm of a sweet drawn out drawl from the foothills of the Smokies, southern drawl slow and sultry, but underneath the hallow feeling of a sacred pulse throbbing in lofty sandstone heights, light ad air yet deep and trembling. Mother's hum as it were. Somewhere a the sheek cat is purring to the slow scratching of the silk soft fur of cheeks and chin. Mother's hum as it were.
The evening too shows golden on the loch stretching its thin legs over the colouring orchard aside my window clad in red and umber orange-brown yellow pluming up from the green undulations extending from the red brick face of old stone side buildings. Waning into the moonlight the night sweeps silver and illuminating pavement in molten sodium light feeding the nightlife of the unlevel youth craving infusions of abandonment. It's a crushing weight of a fifteen tog duvet with white shades of breathy exasperation rolling outward in the same singular silence, an acceptance of all the circumstances of difficulty in return for a separate peace.