An early summer afternoon in Glasgow, and we’ve come
to see exotic flora in the West End’s glazed conservatories.
Lost in careless conversation with your sister, you wander
off to look at tree ferns, palms and succulents — leave me
fiddling with the two pence piece I found on Byres Road.
The Kibble Palace koi pond’s like a magnet for young
families —children point, ask questions, and I feel at once
how lovely and how lonesome life can be. Out in the gardens
there’s a limousine — the Scottish bride concealed by tinted
windows. Two men in rented morning coats — the fathers,
almost certainly —seem purposeful, agreed. Between
my finger and my thumb I roll the coin. When you come
back to me it’s yours. Some things aren’t meant to keep.
Wish carefully, then drop it in the water. Watch it sink.
Phillip Crymble’s poems have appeared in The North, The Stinging Fly, BR•\ND, Iota, Cúirt Annual, Succour, Crannóg, The Moth, Frogmore Papers, Poetry Ireland Review, and other publications worldwide. Not Even Laughter, his first full-length collection, will be released by Salmon Poetry later this year.