The way I came, to get my next connection
meant me hoofing it through central Glasgow
on a night the city was populated by ghosts.
Pale waifs in heels used fliers for protection
from the rain. Blue couples held conversations
in pizza-parlour windows. I stormed the road
head-down, collar-up, trying to light a smoke
and nearly tripped into my mother at the station.

I hugged her, damp; there was so much to ask her
about miscarriages, our troubles buying a home,
the taste of darkness. She listened to me, tender
but she had someplace to be. I watched her go
zipping between the buses along Queen Street,
and I caught the nine forty-one for Aberdeen.

---

Eoghan Walls is an Irish poet. Educated in Wales and Ireland, he has since lived in Rwanda, Germany and Scotland. He won an Eric GregoryAward in 2006, and has been shortlisted and highly commended in many other prizes, including the Manchester Poetry Prize, The Bridport Prize and the Wigtown International Poetry Prize. His first collection, The Salt Harvest (Seren 2011) was shortlisted for the Rupert and Eithne Strong Award for Best First Collection. Currently he lives in Lancaster with his wife and daughters, where he lectures Creative Writing at Lancaster University.