Invecchiati simu, frate.
Yes, you’re right. We have grown old apart
distant in distance and distant in time
but friendship is deeper than years.
We will always be brothers, brother;
our hands still hold the thin blade scars.
I see your face and you are your father
as he was when we were young
and ran and swam and threw stones at the sentries.
We will always be brothers, brother;
our heads still hold the baton scars.
And now we may be old my brother
and our bones
My kitchen window looks onto the back of a sheltered accommodation block. Cats prowl on the grass below. In the morning, in spring and summer mornings, in clear spring and summer mornings, the sun shines onto the red-brick walls and bounces back to light my kitchen.
This morning I waved to the old man whose name I don’t know and he waved back. Today the reflected light shone out from his eyes. He smiled and pulled the curtains shut again.
The snow had brought down the middle ‘s’ from the sweetshop sign but the old folks didn’t care. They’d buy their soft toffees and dance.
simonsalento 