The Rev. Robert Walker- skating,
decoupaged through the roseate gloaming;
proud, like a cameo against the dun,
broad brushstrokes of Lion’s Haunch; Arthur’s Seat.
Contre-jour, he’s caught in a deft profile.
Has he sublimated his past losses:
that youthful mother and his first-born son?
The joys of discipline light up his eye
and grace and effort are counterbalanced.
His being exudes sound theology.
Just like his Master, he glides on water;
sure-footed, poised; in his own element;
making his own mark where others have scored.
In The Traveller’s Pose, he whizzes past,
like a sparrow through a banqueting hall.
The pink inklings binding his buckled shoon,
question his Presbyterianism.
His gaze is fixed on another city-
not The New Town, enlightened though it be.
The artist in him suspends all beliefs.
No stone in Canongate will pin him down.