The sun always shines on TV,
sang Morten in the nineteen-eighties
when I was poring over books
in a tiny room that overlooked
Glasgow’s Necropolis cemetery,
constantly fending off the blows
of smog-and-fog-related melancholies.
When my eyes sought a little respite
from perusing Lawrence’s Aristocracy of the Sun,
on monumental headstones they would alight,
nestling to tributes on epitaphs,
speculating on how Young, Blair and Gray
must have then felt like.
When he first asked me out
Strathclyde was all attired in white,
the moon, a sunken cloud
the river, a thread of light
his beard, Alpine delight
and a pair of eyes to become
my Glaswegian suns.