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On Spitting on the Heart
(Reflections of Edinburgh)


None live in this land, but for her,
walking conduits for her moods and passions,
gladly bearing her soil upon their soles.
Here, where the harvest is gathered by firesides
in winter, fuelled by fine malt
and aged in ink-stained pages;
Where stones sing of freedom
and dying heather
lends the hills a coat of ancient blood;
Storm winds skirl through craggy passes
stirring silent, waiting lochs
to bursts of foam-whipped fury.
We walked in the footprints

of kings, rogues and heroes.
I walked into you
and you carried me home

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