Death in Duke Street

A huddle on the greasy street –

cars stop, nose past, withdraw –

dull glint on soles of tackety boots,

frayed rough blue trousers, nondescript coat

stretching back, head supported

in strangers’ arms, a crowd collecting –

‘Whit’s wrang?’ ‘Can ye see’m?’

‘An auld fella, he’s had it.’

On one side, a young mother in a headscarf

is kneeling to comfort him, her three-year-old son

stands puzzled, touching her coat, her shopping bag

spills its packages that people look at

as they look at everything. On the other side

a youth, nervous, awkwardly now

at the centre of attention as he shifts his arm

on the old man’s shoulders, wondering

what to say to him, glancing up at the crowd.

These were next to him when he fell,

and must support him into death.

He seems not to be in pain,

he is speaking slowly and quietly

but he does not look at any of them,

his eyes are fixed on the sky,

already he is moving out

beyond everything belonging.

As if he still belonged

they hold him very tight.

Only the hungry ambulance

howls for him through the staring squares.

by Edwin Morgan