They arrived at the desk of the Hotel Duncan …
Roddy Lumsden
Though the amaryllis sags and spills …
Don't say Sir Pigeon in his cobalt bonnet. …
I realise it’s not all salad sandwiches …
Just then, encountering my ruddy face …
Down in fame’s flood, down an alley, down …
Tricky work sometimes not to smell yourself, …
Girl shouting Oliver! at the top of the cut-through …
Take this: for nothing here’s chiming, vibrating …
An inch from the curse and pearled …
The kilted porter shook my hand in welcome, …
It doesn’t take the full-wind sickness, …
I’m trying to string together three words …
Lame again, I limp home along Lawn Terrace …
With refreshments and some modesty and home-drawn maps, …
For once, I felt wanted, dead or alive, …
When I hurt you and cast you off, that was buccaneer work: …
These years lift over coldly now: Aprils …
Into perplexity: as an itch chased round …
Kitten curious, or roaring down drinks …
The man I could have been works for a vital institution, is a vital …
Skipping out from the major international cocktail party …
You bastards! It’s all sherbet, and folly …
For the first time, I listen to a lost …
A word you can’t quite say …