Mappa Mundi

by Robin Wilson

lichen fizzing over a granite boulder
like the distant lights of a metropolis
and I could be Easy Jetting homeward
above the flat glare of amber suburbs
towards the harder glare of women

or I could be a traveller with no family
nothing to turn into the iron wind for -
aimless on a soggy autumn deer-track
hesitating in front of a blistered rock
with the world’s map covering its skin