Home for a flying visit,
I spent a rare day with my mother.
We passed a pleasant morning
At a concert,
Listening to Brahms.
Not a coffee drinker,
at intermission I had a cup,
Strong and dark,
Because that was all they had.
We meandered, talking,
Until my mother suggested lunch.
"Here's a good place", she said ... "Nicolson's"
So we entered, and walked upstairs.
And because this was Edinburgh,
A city of magic, darkness and light,
And this was August, and the Festival,
There was J.K. Rowling,
In her favorite corner table,
With a friend.
We were seated close by.
"Do you know who's next to us?" I hissed, sotto voce.
They talked about the first movie;
How it would change her life.
Later, we wandered the city,
Ending up at the art gallery of a friend.
But instead of looking at her work,
I was in the bathroom,
Examining the scimitar of stained glass
Expanding in my peripheral vision
Feel nauseous, pressure but no pain,
And somehow strangely excited:
I recognized this from reading Oliver Sacks ...
My first migraine.
As though a rainbow search light
Had left an afterimage,
Bright and beautiful and terrifying.
Not wanting to ride the bus home,
We walked, on this rare day,
Through a grey mist, real or not I can't say,
Until, hours later, it was gone.
