Francis of Assisi has nothing on Big Jake Robinson sitting, this freezing cold morning, on his bench at the end of the Kirkgate throwing seeds from his raincoat pocket to the scrawny pigeons.
They say his heart beats in time with Leith itself, that he knows the rhythm of the place. They even say it’s from one of those castaway seeds, the one that fell in that crack in the paving, that his next tale grows. I believe them.
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