The festival season hits Edinburgh again, filling her streets with crowds of the eager young and culture seekers. In contrast, today's poem by Norman MacCaig catches the sleepy capital city on a sabbath morning more than 60 years ago. It comes from the superb posthumous volume of his poems, edited by his son Ewen and published by Polygon.     

                                                                                                                               EARLY SUNDAY MORNING, EDINBURGH

Crosshatch of streets:  some waterfall

Down pits, some rear to lay their forepaws

On hilly ledges; others bore

Through lilac, gean and holly.

 

A stretch of sky makes what it can

Of ships sailing and sailing islands.

Trees open their rustling hands

And toss birds up, a fountain, a fanfare.

 

A yellow milk-cart clipclops by 

Like money shaken in a box,

Less yellow than the golden coxcomb

Gallanting on St Giles's spire.

 

And people idle into space

And disappear again in it - 

Apparitions from nowhere: unseen

 Distances shine from their faces.

 

And, fore and hindpaws out of line,

An old dog mooches by, his gold

Eyes hung down below hunched shoulders

His tail switching, feathery, finely.