This is not my city
but your camera lens pulls me in
like Alice through the looking glass
This is not a dream
where you wake in the morning
to coffee and the humdrum call of the day
and wander through tree lined avenues
where old men gather to gossip
before retreating
to the shade of cool stone arcades.
This is not news.
This is just
a young man with a camera
wandering among the shadows
where doors and ceilings
dangle like fractured limbs
among the tumbledown rubble,
the ruins of his city
where the dust will never settle.
______________
Eileen Farrelly lives in Scotland and has written poetry, intermittently for most of her life.
Her poems have most recently appeared, The Gladrag, Marble and The Writers Café
Magazine. She is also a musician and songwriter and can be found singing for beer in
various pubs around Glasgow.