markbousfield

DOWN THE MOUNTAIN

Of trees and shadows,
the tears of a brook curling through the curvatures of Ben Nevis.

So,
I sit,
I smoke,
I unbarrell the flask of stewed tea,
I take a shit.

The roots of grass underneath my belly
feel suited and soothed by a nip of scotch added to the brew
from the dusty bottle I nursed all through the winter.

Letters carved in blocks of bone for printing notes,
holding hands with a stranger,
heads looking up high to the heavens
catching the air as it falls to our faces.

Laying at the eye level of ants looking at the perspective
of a knee high horizon
out over Highbury Fields on May Day.

Fingers throw like wandered arrows
over the pages of the moleskine notepad
that journaled my days up the mountain.

Dreams of Jack on the rocks,
casinos with dancing girls,
pizzas baked in woodfire ovens,
central heating in the rain,
and most of all,
a girl to love when it turns Tuesday.