The Suicide Crime Scene

Our feet patter a dusty tune Edinburgh traffic plumes One good eye surveys the scene. Suddenly – a flash of yellow Dashes across blurred vision Police line - do not cross. Curiosity beats a steady rhythm We weave through traffic Feel the shame of indiscretion. Once at the tall railings You hoist me up to look I feel cold metal chafe my hands. Peeking over, I gasp at the drop gazing down at the street below A screen obscures the view. “Please get down from there!” I drop down, grab your hand We run away like naughty children.