There’s a stiff north wind, blowing down Candlemaker row tonight,
and the grass-market still shows traces of last night’s fun.
The comedians that we see on panel shows, all six of them,
are laughing at the same jokes we think they improvise every night.
They become zombies after 2.00 in the morning,
living in an alcoholic fug that only Irn Bru can lift.
There are street performers playing with fire,
some throwing knives, and the same tired jokes as each other.
Nobody asks them to risk life and limb for a largely indifferent audience,
but they still turn out time after time,
their passive aggression showing that they would have been happier
working in an office.
Tourists look down Prince’s Street Gardens,
from the safety of Scott’s Tower,
the atonal noise of traffic,
students selling their shows,
and bagpipers some distance away.
Across Carlton Hill, and Waverley the tourists
flash their cameras,
read their Rebus’s, and see only the tourist side.
Under the streets, the curious, with no fear
are shown around the more garish aspects of History,
from Deacon Brodie, and Burke and Hare,
warning that only the really brave,
ever come out of there.
And tomorrow, all the Candles on Candlemaker row will blow out,
another group of teenagers will take moody selfies
outside the places where JK Rowling first cobbled Harry Potter together,
a few lucky people will perform in front of large audiences,
and a lot more will finish to silence.
About the Author
Ben Macnair is an award winning poet and playwright from Staffordshire in the United Kingdom. Follow him on Twitter.
