Silent city

The gulls traverse the desolate streets as dawn breaks across the city, like white ghosts silently following the street grids in funereal succession. It was Christmas day, and the streets were graced only by morning frost and the detritus of the previous night’s festivities. I was enthralled by this perfect solitude and the blinding brilliance of sun on ice: sullied by none, I its chosen trespasser. I walk past George square and follow St Vincent Street to its crest. Looking westwards and down I see another figure shuffling on a treacherous slippery path towards the Clyde, occasionally loosing their traction, arms flailing and then finding their balance again, only to repeat the cycle moments later.