Lion come. Close. Closer.
The sky a doctored blue, the teeth
a Hollywood white, to dazzle me
whilst he tears me limb from limb.
Then it changes.
Suddenly, I’m in shorts and backpack.
A look I’ve never liked, but I’m not
looking at me.
The sun beats down upon beetles’ backs,
baking them tired into cracked mud.
But I’m cold in the shadow of a testament
to my ancestors.
Forty foot high, its skeleton stands strangled
by moss and ivy in a loving entwine
it’s taken centuries to define.
I’m in Peru I believe.
I’m about to touch the glossy walls,
strange finish for stones,
when a voice calls to me from a distant place:
“What about Florence?” she says.
“Yeah, sure,” I reply at the entrance.
It’ll never be Goa with the one
who came and went like the snow.