One hundred holes

And thirty eight more

Scattered along the shore

At first glance at random

Constellated impressions

Square shallow holes

In sandstone slabbed shoals

On the Leith water docks of old

Did Mary of Guise

Brush past these holes?

Robert the Bruce?

Czar Nicholas II?

Mary Queen of Scots?

Andrew Lamb of Lambs House?

King George IV?

On his way to the newly built New Town

Famed men of pen

Boswell and Johnson?

Importers of wine

Rannie and Bell?

With bills stacked high

Run up by Prince Charlie

Sailors laid up in the Seamen’s Hostel

Now a hotel for lubbers of land?

And George Brown of course

Maker of bicycles, boats and machines

Blacksmith and caster

Repairer of vessels

Degausser of keels

Rendered safe from Mines

o’ War

Did each hole

A purpose have?

These small minor holes

Centuries old

Dells, indents, pixels

Made with intent

For what?

Enquiry is made

Theories espoused

Explanations postulated:

To hold the ropes

Of the tethered boats?

To pin the sails of the tall ships at rest?

Laid out and flayed

In the sunshine on Leith

Thick yarn in needles

Fixing the holes

Blasted open at sea

“Loud roar’d the blast

Aye the southward we fled

With masts creaking leaning

In horror and dread”

Praying they weren’t

Splinter’d and smashed

By the roaring rolling seas

The sailors return to the bar

Drunk to be back on dry land

Terra Ferma!

Terra Scotia!

Or were they to pin down the mariner

Who dared to shoot down the albatross

In a doldrum delirium crazed haze?

“God save thee ancient mariner!”

Or the dock-side publican?

Who dared to serve slop

From the troughs of his bar

To sailors on shore leave

Intent no repent

The sailors they sing their prayer:

“Oh lord above

Send down a dove

With wings as sharp as razors

To slit the throat

Of them there blokes

That serves bad beer to sailors”

Or were they to prop up the awnings

Of the merchant trading sellers?

Wool, glass and herrings

Pieces of cheese

Leaving these shores

Barrels of booze

Arriving in scores

The above, all accepted

The evidence suggests

M’ Lord with respect

These diminutive impressions

Pixilated depressions

Were as and when required

Formed by a lad

With a hammer and chisel

Then fitted with dook

Or wedge, poll or peg

To hold the goods

Of far flung lands

In place on the shore

Sure and steadfast

Imports, exports

Barrels of Claret

Crates of silk

Oak lath and flour

Butter from Denmark

Claret and cloth

Sherry and port

Iron and malt

Pallets of arms

Figgets of freight

Shored up on the shore

By poles jammed in holes

Square poles in square holes

Chiseled by hand

On the Leith shores of yore

And where are they now

These holes of old?

Silent observers to the footfall of tourists

And the general milieu

Of everyday Leith

Collectors of butts

Soil, dirt and dust

Masonry debris

Windblown sands

From the crested waves

Of vertiginous dunes

Saharan dust

Flown thousands of miles to

Leith

Beneath the feet of drinker’s
shoes

Patiently waiting for their Champagne and food

Pale ale and mild

Oysters and stout

Tick follows tock follows tick

follows tock

The ghosts of the sailors remain

“Here’s to you Ahab!

Here’s to your dream

For the sake of hate

You spat your last breath

Here’s to you! And all who remember your soul”

Holes no more filled

Except for the occasional

Leg of a table

Or diner’s stiletto

But look!

There is blown

On the back of a mistral

A seed that has fallen

Embedded the infill

And within this square hole

Watered by clouds

Raised from the oceans

A miniature oasis of green Blooming

Taking hold

Daring to dream

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