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.

(c) Edwin Morgan. Poems appear with kind permission of Carcanet Press and Mariscat Press. Images by kind permission of EdwinMorgan.com. With thanks to Edwin and the Scottish Poetry Library.