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.
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