Waiting
Hidden in the deep shade of the umbrella pine
I can survey the approaches from here.
On the sun-bleached slatted wood in front of me
There’s a platter of goat’s cheese and roasted peppers.
And the sound of insects going about their business
in the stillness of the midsummer torpor,
an incessant cicada coming out in sympathy
with my tinnitus. Olive oil and ciabatta bread.
If I close my eyes I can sense your presence,
and feel the meagre relief of gentle zephyrs
ruffling the small stack of papers on the table.
Chilled white wine and two tall glasses.
The verdant hills rising steeply behind me
are veiled in a smoky blue haze. A cardboard
cut-out of a buzzard circles languidly just above
the horizon. Anchovies and tuna fish salad.
Nearby two men in old battered hats are
beating the branches of a venerable olive tree,
the olives falling like hailstones into the netting
ruff that encircles the base. You are very close.
*
Inside the walls’ breadth
it is not allowed, the sun
not through the shutters
open by centimetres, nothing more.
Outside is where I must go
beyond the terrace, the three stone steps
out along a footpath, fringing the hedge
where each footfall crushes up sage
rosemary and thyme, stirs a dense aroma
leaves a trail behind me
even as I beat a path to a hillside
that is stony, tumbling, wooded
that is my way up and over the top
to where the heat softens
by but a fraction. Changes nothing.
Where someone waits as the twilight thickens
hears the hounds howl in the valley
hears the hippie drums rumble
down in the valley. Someone waits.
I must step out, beat a path.
Someone is waiting.
*
Further down the valley, beyond the shimmering
vineyards, beyond the stand of cypress trees,
stop-start working of a chainsaw buzzes like a
large fly alighting and settling. Perrier water and ice.
I see you now, across too many years, the heat
distorting your image but still recognise the
pale blue dress and your smile. Your smile.
The papers scattering across the gravel at my feet.
I can survey the approaches from here.
On the sun-bleached slatted wood in front of me
There’s a platter of goat’s cheese and roasted peppers.
And the sound of insects going about their business
in the stillness of the midsummer torpor,
an incessant cicada coming out in sympathy
with my tinnitus. Olive oil and ciabatta bread.
If I close my eyes I can sense your presence,
and feel the meagre relief of gentle zephyrs
ruffling the small stack of papers on the table.
Chilled white wine and two tall glasses.
The verdant hills rising steeply behind me
are veiled in a smoky blue haze. A cardboard
cut-out of a buzzard circles languidly just above
the horizon. Anchovies and tuna fish salad.
Nearby two men in old battered hats are
beating the branches of a venerable olive tree,
the olives falling like hailstones into the netting
ruff that encircles the base. You are very close.
*
Inside the walls’ breadth
it is not allowed, the sun
not through the shutters
open by centimetres, nothing more.
Outside is where I must go
beyond the terrace, the three stone steps
out along a footpath, fringing the hedge
where each footfall crushes up sage
rosemary and thyme, stirs a dense aroma
leaves a trail behind me
even as I beat a path to a hillside
that is stony, tumbling, wooded
that is my way up and over the top
to where the heat softens
by but a fraction. Changes nothing.
Where someone waits as the twilight thickens
hears the hounds howl in the valley
hears the hippie drums rumble
down in the valley. Someone waits.
I must step out, beat a path.
Someone is waiting.
*
Further down the valley, beyond the shimmering
vineyards, beyond the stand of cypress trees,
stop-start working of a chainsaw buzzes like a
large fly alighting and settling. Perrier water and ice.
I see you now, across too many years, the heat
distorting your image but still recognise the
pale blue dress and your smile. Your smile.
The papers scattering across the gravel at my feet.
Page(s) 70-71
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