Fushimi Inari

We walked into the dark-

-er and darker red gates and long long steps

a key between my teeth

shiny shiny boots plastic

cup of warm white wine

 

you’re not losing your way

we’re just tired and yes

the only way is up

I’ll have another

 

cup and oh, look at that view

who knew the night has a grain?

there are lights dancing across

the surface of my eyeballs

 

Stockholm

Having too many

books records chairs

rocking horses bell cloches

cacti coils of tarred rope unframed

paintings maps of the Far East children

half finished packets of tea occasional

tables frayed rugs your collection of spoons

refracting telescopes spare

boxes of salt liquorice

I still stay indoors

 

Having already decided

that fingerless gloves were a mistake

blaming TV serials literary American novels

boutique clothing outlets my mother two

sticky glasses of half forgotten port the romance

the romance

 

Having dreams of packing just one bag

opening the shutters in July and sweeping

the leaves from the front step

repainting the peeling yellow paint

sitting down to enjoy my holiday

 

 

John Boursnell is a writer living in Glasgow, Scotland.

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