Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

That day the beach was our destination. I rose early and put on the blue shirt, which seemed reasonable in the circumstances. He brought the bicycles and we set off straight away, riding slowly through fields full of flowers. In the evening, back at the house, we drank red wine and wandered along the flagstone corridors. It was very warm and we left the windows open onto the night sky and the accessible hills.

We soon got to know the island, and the narrow lanes with high hedges which led down to the sea. One morning we set off for a swim in the little bay, but the water was too cold. I sat on a rock while he went to the market for bread and fish. The beauty of the light was unexpected and the fire smoked gently. That afternoon we stood at the palace gates and the schoolgirls strolled by with arms linked.

The settlement was near the shipyard but we heard a man say there was no airport. We thought this seemed dangerous, but the man said that if we stayed long enough we might not have to join the race. In the distance we could see the cars bumping slowly along the track to the mountains. The singer arrived at the marina just as the film crew was setting up the equipment. That evening she was dining with a famous actor at a large hotel noted for the excellence of its seafood. We imagined them walking up the steps, under the palm fronds, and into the elegant foyer, music coming faintly from a closed room.

One day we pitched a tent in the hills. We had seen clouds forming along the rim of the white lake and it was then we decided to head up into the wind. There was a clearing just where we hoped to find it, surrounded by clumps of rough trees. He joked about catching a wild boar for supper but he put the rucksack with the whisky and sardines ready for a quick getaway.

From the station it was a short walk to the ruins. Young people rode past on bicycles, slowly. The heat bounced up from the cobbles in the piazza and we went over to the fountain and envied the pigeons which bathed there. The ruins were crowded with families and the heat seemed even more intense. A nun sat on a collapsible seat and watched a small boy turn cartwheels in the dust. Beyond the columns the gardens floated in haze. I thought of the evening ahead, the afterglow of the sun setting behind the vineyard and the mist on a perfectly chilled glass of Frascati.