Soon I will be back, Edinburgh,
city of festivals and arts,
back in your arms, amongst your hilly breasts,
in the green soft fragrant hair of your pubes,
high on the verge of your shining phallus
from where I will once more enjoy
a bird’s eye view of your beauty.
A vertical climb to orgasmic heights,
ready to be seduced again, all dressed in black
and silk, as you once dreamed me.
Ready to take off my veils to you
without shame, like when for the first time
I saw you—barely nineteen and ready to live—
and your eyes struck me like lightening.
From your tops the castle looks so small,
Naïf-style painting, ever present on my mind
since a thousand years ago, when under a lacey
shower of veils I was carried away from you
to be given to someone else as a bride.
No-one was allowed to look at me, but your firm
burning eyes didn’t let go of mine—nor mine of yours.
So now I am back, alone, where I was happy once
with someone else, now I’ve found you again.
But when I’ll reach the top of Arthur’s Seat
and scream aloud his name, he’ll be too far
Wellington, December 2003