Capsule
Three weeks of unbroken sun.
We watched it set in Kamakuru,
Kumamoto, Koyasan.
Followed every sinking moment
in Nagora, Nara, Nikko,
Kurashiki, Nagasaki,
Aso, Beppu, back again.
In suburban Ikebukuro
it’s raining. We pick up umbrellas
outside the hostel,
leave them at the metro gate.
Leave the outside world
until we pull up hoods in Brixton
six thousand miles away.
Shinjuku, Shibuya, Shinagawa
move along the message strip
above the carriage door.
We thank the seven lucky gods
for electomechanical translation.
Next tube stop’s Tokyo:
N’Ex train’s to terminal 2.
At Heathrow we’re channelled
from plane through customs
onto the Piccadilly line.
We’ll change at Green Park,
blink to stay awake.
Blink again as stars and slashes
flash before our eyes.
The message strip’s gone crazy,
station information
encoded in percentages and pluses,
arrows, @s and ampersands.
We spot the odd X and Y
but most of the alphabet’s
been digitally ditched.
Opposite, looking puzzled,
the two Edokkos who flew a row
in front. They check the guide book.
We smile: we’d have been lost
in Japan without all the help.
We could say something.
But we’re British.
Edokko: one who was born and raised in Tokyo.