Why did you set yourself the task of pushing the rock up the slope I asked.
He turned to look at me and released his grasp. The stone slid on the grass, picked up speed and sped past.
He frowned and blinked fast and set off down the hill again.
You’re not the first to ask, he said, and you won’t be the last.
fireworks shook rolling thunder to life
as the moon rose and forked lightning fell
street performers drew expectant crowds
so many stories to hear and to tell
The benches in the new square are made of old marble. Children trace their fingers across eroded inscriptions and call out random letters and words. Cars double circle the square, prayers for a parking space unheard at this hour.
The yellow dog in the blackest shade of the trees lifts its head as if to question life, shakes its ears loose and lays down again, one rear paw twitching. It does not move when the rain starts; it knows its place is dry. Parents grasp children and run through the lines of cars, pressing their backs against the walls and windows of shops, sheltering below the mock-baroque balconies.
As street vendors circle the square with hastily procured umbrellas, the rain suddenly stops. Pavements steam and waiters wipe tables. The dog lifts its head again.
Lecce, 19 September 2021
Silkie outgrew the pond.
Once again, under cover both of night and of the tarpaulin over the wheelbarrow, we bumped him down to the sloping sand.
Clouds opened the sky and a grey head appeared in the black mirror waves.
Silkie swam towards the moon, not looking back this time.
now freed the turtle
swims beneath the lily pads
new friends arriving
La Cutura 11 September 2021
every year is shorter
than those which went before
as the world turns and
returns to tomorrow
I await you golden
breath held in slow heat
icy roof shower
nakedness dodging
the neighbours’ sharp eyes
From the cliff I can see another country.
Behind me I hear whispers and the rustling of long grass. Men. They have guns. A dog.
I cannot stand up. I stay crouched and edge forwards.
The moon nears the edge of the cloud. As it bursts out magnesium
I run fall roll to the cliff edge. The sea grass cuts my hands.
As I fall I see the other country.
It would be inaccurate to say
I remember chalk springs
and water meadows.
Memory implies they no longer live inside me,
shaping my future,
the clarity of the water chilling my bones.
I can never forget them
or the colour of the foliage
or the too-soon long walk home.
in response to a tweet from @londonlitlab 15/07/21
