Issue 9

Autumn 2013


How Dark the Clyde


There is a road that leads
from the halogen paths of night,
a curl of tarmac to nothing
live or attended or fruitful,
its silent factory so far
from pubs and fractured pavements
you would have to know
it was there before turning,
else you might mistake it for
another forgotten legacy
of sweat and alcohol,
of early mornings, smoke,
sandwiches and fellowships.
Down there the river runs
beetle-black against the rim
of one parish breaking
against its neighbour.
A man can park a car there,
play music, fiddle with keys,
be unheard, unseen, listen
to the low lap of water rushing
about its important business,
luring all down to its womb-depths,
take a short drive,
burn but a spurt of oil.


Mark Russell