Blacket Avenue, Edinburgh

I turned onto Blacket Avenue,
One lonely road in Edinburgh,
An eerily quiet street,
With columns at each end of the road,
Like the gates of hell fell off them,
The way winds and wends,
And an avenue indeed it is,
With trees older than the earth,
Standing still with tales untold,
Little plants clambering up walls,
As if inhabited from yonder,
Houses looking lived in but deserted,
Walls so high that the residents sigh,
Almost forsaken if not for a cat’s meow,
There is much to be scared of,
The cemetery two streets up,
The dark holding court,
Yet I trundle with hesitation,
Shaking like I am eighty,
Walking no faster than the escargots,
That blessed my palate an hour ago,
In my youth, I like ancients spoke,
As I aged I became like the aged,
Yet I think like the demented,
Making stories of the unintended,
It is no accident that of crazy forebears,
Has arisen a crazier offspring,
Before I could imagine a fear,
I saw another two columns,
Blacket Avenue at an end,
Turn right on Dalkeith Road.