Metamorphosis THIRTEEN

Posted on 14th May, 2019

Day 13


The Law : Kirsty A Niven


The world stretches out around,

an endless tapestry rolling ever out.

The wind bristles through me,

I feel like I am becoming part of it –

part of this hill, the Law,

that's stood here for millennia;

watching over the town as

it has unfurled across the land. 


It has seen the Pictish settlers

and the Oor Wullie statues in every colour.

It has watched industries rise and fall,

the rail bridge buckle in its eye line.

It has witnessed wars leave their marks

stitched into the landscape forever.

It has felt school trips crawl over

its surface like an ant infestation

and trains shoot through its heart.


The Law has cringed as poets

have tried to analyse its soul. 




The Links

Kirkcaldy Links Market, Fife. : Peter Burrows



Transformed, the esplanade we’d park on for shopping,

glittered a boundless mirage: all Scotland’s 

travelling fairs gathered here, each cusp of spring.

All competing lights and sounds, the rides kaleidoscope,

the footfall centred, mingling, all merging 

like the songs, all chorus, all euphoric beat

blaring from ride to ride. Tentacles of flung cars 

spinning above us. Hot dogs, candy floss – 

bags fit to burst - red sticky dummy lollies, 

lads with their girls - poised under halos of stalls,

packed-tight with knock-off merch, and outsized dolls - 

looking for the challenge to throw money down.


Losing our way in, we pushed on, eying thrills on all sides.

My brother’s crowd spun up high defying gravity. 

Us, the whirling waltzas (squashed tight into my sister’s friend); 

my mum, waiting, holding a bagged goldfish.

Running ride to ride; always wanting more.


We knew nothing of the Lang Toun’s long history.

700 years trading on the front. Entertainers,

swings and pulleys, steam-powered engines ever-evolving.

Generations of fairground families:

Wilmot, Evans, Maxwell, Codona,

showcasing new rides. Gallopers, switchblades, 

speedways, waltzas, a revolving ritual,

a mile long, a week long, every year. 


Always held fast, one and all. Each circular return 

lifting us higher. Wind-smoothed, sights misted,   

rooftops dark against pulsating light. The night-tide

rippling this wondrous palette. Each descent

falling away. The all-absorbing slow parade 

passing along the avenue endlessly.




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