To me, brooding here, listening
To the wing-beat of my heart
Against drained glasses,

Comes from the TV screen
Wintry-faced detective Taggart
Trying to solve another crime

On his Strathclyde beatNot
with the god-like aura
Of Holmes or Poirot,

But painstakingly sifting
Through the maze of
Meagre, tantalising clues …

He plods through litter-blown
Wastelands; into dim alleyways,
past graffiti-strewn walls.

Another killing. More dead ends.
Confessions. Shabby lives laid bare.
Question marks hovering

Over alibis … Until,
At last, a slight misspelling
On a get-well card

Unmasks the mastermind.
Then, a gleam flashes through
Taggart’s hooded eyes as if

The dark passages of spirit,
The unrelenting quest
Were fleetingly luminous.

And that is all, that is all.