Poetry Map of Scotland, poem no 287

Dear Edinburgh,

You cannot visit yourself and that is sadness.
Your sky is nice. Your sky is old lace over a lamp.
Instead download my brain tape.
You are full of corner shops, castles, print piles.
 

You never ring on Sundays to have supermarket conversations.
You are just here wearing no knickers
telling all about your once volcanic disposition,
how once a year you night bus and dress in posters.
Teach me how to wear so much weight on one wrist.

Next year, at midnight, we will scale Arthur’s seat.
I will bring the drinks.
It will be strange for you to look down at yourself,
your outline, a surgery scar
dimming from blush to taupe.

Admiring.

Hannah Jane Walker

 

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