Livingston

Livingston – a name that whispers of the West,
Where once the hills lay soft in heather’s sigh,
Now streets of concrete stretch and softly rest
Beneath the watchful eye of cloud‑lit sky.

The River Almond threads its silver seam,
Reflecting both the old and newly built,
From farmstead cottages to glass‑clad dream,
Where commerce hums and quiet hopes are spilt.

In parks where children chase the lingering light,
And cyclists trace the lines of former rail,
The town breathes steady, day turns into night,
A pulse that beats within the Lothian vale.

Oh Livingston, you blend the past with cheer,
A modern tapestry, sincere and clear.