by David M. Harris

They were a knockabout bunch, early Scots Nats.
We had to turn down their invitation
for reels and homebrew, trek down
among the lonely warehouses. The pubs
closed late in Edinburgh, the hostel
not long after. Was that
a noise behind us? In the dark
between the streetlights, footsteps?
Or echoes of our own? We hurried on.
Courage stretched thin, but held
until we paused at the hostel door
and saw the gang
emerging from the shadows
who had tailed us,
lurking guardians,
from the pub.