The northern midnight faintly prints
my attic window on the further wall.
Down in the goodsyard by the docks
long lines of waggons stir,
nudging each other, half asleep.
From the benighted Firth a vessel calls,
her cry bounced back by the encroaching hills ...
Not the historic trappings of the capital;
nor the first glimpse of the far Highland line,
nor any of the eye's sharp sallow images
it was, but these shy sounds,
this muted pulsebeat of activity,
this living voice of Scotland in the dark,
that slid into my heart, and bid me welcome.
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©Renate Mitchell.
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