poetry

LAST QUARTERTHE WANDERERTHE FIRST JOURNEY OF THEWANDERER[Composed Aug 1989 - Nov 1990]At the age of seventeen, the Wanderer leaves Scotlandto discover the world and himself. He passesthrough seven European states, sleeping where hecan, learning what he will, before returning home tohis own people. However, it is seventeen years laterthat the Wanderer finally returns to his native cityfor good. He wishes to re-establish contact with hisformer childhood friend and arranges to meet himin a bistro in the most bohemian part of the city.What follows is the story of the first and shortest ofhis journeys which is related to us by his boyhoodfriend (The Narrator).SCOTLANDNARR: It was summer and the sun wasgoing down:Northward, the multi-storey windowsglaredAbove the chimneys; but to the westBeyond the Clyde at ebb, the eveningskyReflected by the waters round Strathclyde'sisles,Glowed red and created shadows eastwardsTo shade Glasgow from the august day.I met the Wanderer by the riversideBeneath the Kelvin Bridge, close by thesubwayWhere friends and folks from differentwalksOf life relax by the breaking Kelvin watersAnd talk their troubles out over drinksIn a bistro-cafe well-known to beggarsWho block the pathway to the cafe entranceAnd ply their trade, take their chancesWith the intellectuals and the artistsWho patronise the bistro out of habit.I was late and the Wanderer had gone:Then I saw him standing on the bridgeStaring into the Kelvin water, whichbarelyTrickled as it had been a scorching summer,So hot in fact, it had been the hottestSummer of the century; but there he wasMy childhood friend, just now returnedFrom seventeen years of wandering perpetually.At first I thought it was not him -I looked away but soon turned about toseeThat he had noticed me standing thereThin and greying from a life half-lived;And he - elbows perched upon the parapet,Hands cupped beneath his chin, his eyesA piercing mystery of a thousand talesThat I would never get to hear -He stepped forward and took my handAnd pulled me to his bosom in a movementThat made me put my arms around him.He made me feel that we had neverpartedAll those years ago when we were seventeenAnd fresh from school.We were friends again: in a Glasgowvale,At a table, we relived our schoolboydaysOf how we two had faced the worldOf childhood and never lost a fight,Nor failed a test; how we had spent341