New Statesman Scotland - The Millennium Bug
I won't name the price
but it was a hip place to be;
some Supplement said so -
the Highlands at Hogmanay.
We chose carefully -
it was our call;
the house was way up a glen
and despite the cost, quite small.
We didn't want any kids
which cut our options down,
but once in a lifetime
who wants kids around?
So with six of like mind,
our cars crammed full
of Damart and booze,
we passed the grey school
at the head of the glen.
The road was twisting and slow;
treacherous too - black ice
beneath a dusting of snow.
We yelped when the lodge
came into view: behind it
a white mountain took off
to the sky; before it
a park ran down to a loch.
We tracked the marbled shapes
of sheep and quizzical deer,
then the darkening cape
of the loch itself -
the rowboats at its edge
like cut-outs, the horizon
sharp as the world's black ledge.
Inside, it smelled of dampness
till the Rayburn was lit.
Fetching logs, unpacking,
we all did our bit
till the fire was roaring
the century away
and we waited to be folded
into the crisp new day.
Oh we were so comfy
in our little but-an-ben:
most of the food pre-prepared
and we had enough for ten!
Though I can't recall any
of whatever it was we ate,
it was succulent and sweet
and kept us going till late.
Then just before twelve
we shut up, listened, heard
the silence all round.
It was odd: we were
all far gone by then;
yet, not alone, I felt
something was missing.
I flicked some melted
ice across the table -
the candles by now had dripped
into lace; you could see the heat
on our faces - then I nipped
outside for a starlit piss.
The cold seized my cheeks
like a stranger; for what
was I doing in this bleak
landscape? - each sound
at home in it but my slow
black hieroglyph laid
down on the snow.
It was then
I thought of the great cities
and of the huge crowds,
drunk, having spent their kitties
swaying like seaweed
their breath clouding the air -
then the lights, the flowers of fireworks;
but I found no comfort there.
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