Hrabal in Dumbarton and Ballantyne's
a cinnamon brick amongst the drab
unasked-for grey, a half-drunk figure
facing eternity and death. How like the town
he drives through? How distant now
from the poet who arrived hot-foot from Ireland,
a price upon his head, asking only patronage
for a special gift. The university
has laid on a fancy party and the Czech
will cut his cake, will answer questions.
But back home, he will write
out of the tumble-down scatter of his memory
and daub the town with brush-strokes all his own.
And so we paint. And so we paint.
Each stroke over the last.
Written by Gregor Addison
Published in Gutter: The magazine of new Scottish writing (No.10, Spring 2014 guttermag.co.uk).