Sweeping through your Scotch Broom,
weeping over your cobblestones,
lilting around the columns of Calton Hill,
is an Age of Reason so brilliantly brooding,
some nights I am kept awake
listening to Pendragon's breath caress Arthur's Seat,
and whispers drip from sills on Ramsay Street.
Though roots may drink from a sleepless night,
when morning light creeps through the curtains,
my love for you is renewed.