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​                                                            The mews house


                              The door at the back is the one I prefer.
                              Its viscous handle still damp at midday
                              sited where no breeze can dry or use.
                              A green skin shines uneven bricks.

                              Chewing the air, I’ve forgotten the bright sun
                              of the front square, its carriage-able sweep,
                              thin-gated garden all breasted with bloom
                              like a girl in a balcony bra. I don’t want

                              an easy ride. I want your thin blankets.
                              The back bedroom’s lack of light so thick
                              I cannot write a word
                              unless I look hard. Unless, my love, I think.

                              walking the lime tree drive that time
                              with the sky all swinging blue
                              around our fingers and you
                              masquerading as the wealthy industrialist
                              all this is mine. I almost believed
                              you would give it up for me.

                              Or we’re older and I’m back in town
                              with you attentive in a softly-carpeted hall.
                              This time I imagine a government job:
                              a desirable unobtrusive place.

                              Later I suppose we might go out
                              not overdressed
                              to a dinner slightly spoiled
                              by respective middle-aged appetites

                              but for now our eyes meet
                              before you take my coat or scarf
                              and comment on country weather.
                              The mirror is gold and quiet.


                                                      BRIDGET KHURSHEED has had poems, stories and reviews published 
                                                      most recently in Gutter, the Eildon Tree, Poetry Scotland, The Rialto, 
                                                      The London Magazine, New Writing Scotland and The Shop. She edits 
                                                      an online poetry magazine and blog, poetandgeek.com.




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