Robidishce
I look around and see:
A small village high
on a hill;
Beds with duvets
neatly folded;
Ants scurrying
frantically as their home is destroyed,
Picked up and secured
in a wall;
Gnocchi neatly lined
on a tray;
A bared up hut that
was a border post;
A completed task –
A dry stone wall where
rocks were before;
Italy surrounded by
yellow stars;
Plates scraped clean
after every meal;
A view seemingly
inserted by photoshop;
Water frothing and
bubbling over rocks;
A place I would love
to see again.
I listen and hear:
A laughing child;
The silence over a
good meal;
Endless singing and
laughing as we work;
The periodic crowing
of a rooster, drawing attention
To itself over the
other birdsong;
Gnocchi lyrics to
every song;
A distant car motor
distorted by the wind;
A place I would love
to hear again.
I sniff and smell:
Clean cloths still
dripping wet;
Mint, camomile and
lemon, freshly picked;
Fresh food wafting
from the kitchen;
Potato clinging to
hands and table;
Peas freshly podded in
a bowl;
A place I would love
to smell again.
I open my mouth and
taste:
The most amazing food
I have ever eaten;
The gnocchi we made
the night before in a beautiful bolognaise source;
A Perfect chocolaty
balance in brownies;
Food I would love to
taste again.
I stand and feel:
Warm water
rhythmically beating down removing dirt;
Sticky potato doe
stuck to my fingers;
Light refreshing rain
on my face;
The heat of working in
gardening gloves,
The sudden burning as
my skin brushes nettles;
Working in the sun
broken only by rain and shade;
Pyropen burning into
wood;
Floating away with the
current in cool green water;
A place I will
defiantly visit again.
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