Edinburgh's Monumental Night Out

Edinburgh’s Monumental Night Out 

Every year, on winter’s shortest day, in dead of night,

Edinburgh's statues stir, readying themselves,

For their annual expedition, their annual jamboree,

Livingstone, the great explorer, leads the way, 

Then Wellington, the Iron Duke, descends his horse,

Holmes wraps his cape around himself against the cold, then

Hume, the giant, climbs stiffly from his plinth,

While Fergusson and Burns, arm-in-arm, reunite in reverie,

Then the artists and the scientists, 

Then the kings and dukes and earls,

Then the doctors and the dreamers walk,

Then churchmen, and the men of law,

The men of war, and the men of peace,

From all around the city, each man takes his rightful place,

Making his way towards the Old Town’s White Hart Inn,

To argue, talk and sing and play, for an evening’s resurrection,

To join the throbbing throng, in a fleeting reconnection,  

To pass the foaming ale amongst themselves,

All rivalries forgot, in joyful merriment,

While Smith, controls the purse, an economist to the end,

And Knox sits in his corner, nursing a hidden gin,

Yet still the party livens with stories, songs and rhymes,

The drams pour as if no thought of closing time,

As Burns takes the floor and holds the eye,

And then, in the midst of the swagger and the boast,

The door opens, and two women, uninvited, enter,

The Queen, the Widow of Windsor,

And an unnamed black woman and her child,

The men – all fifty-three of them,

These symbols of excellence,

Chastened into silence,

Bow their heads,

In awkward,

Shame.