mind how you go

We spent the evenings making wood chippings,

The light was dim, tungsten yellow

We’d never known the tree felled for this enterprise

Trespasser metamorphoses her skin to reptilian

A spine buckles

“I thought that we had an understanding…”

Between two, three, infinite

That which is unspoken can never be fully understood.

Heart glazed with sickening front

Chest pocket, free to rifle in

Flints ready – a spark is too easily taken

A long weekend in Milan, the city famed for delectable glamour, satisfies the cultural palate but leaves a slightly bland taste in the mouth.

Day 1: An Epic Journey through the Alps and our First Pizza

The afternoon train journey from Switzerland’s Lausanne Gare to Milano Centrale is boundlessly stunning. Winding through the Alps one is silenced by beauty. The mountains’ rugged might towers stoically above the carriages of the Eurocity train. One peers around vistas and cherishes the novelty of a border-crossing on the ground. Thrilled by hopes of a Poirot-esque crime scene as border guards enter, we nevertheless pass smoothly through the delightfully named town of Domodossala into Italy.

The train carriages themselves leave much to be desired but the traces of antecedent vovagers and the slight cool breeze are soon forgotten as views of harsh limestone turn to snowy peaks which peel off to reveal the majestic Lake Maggiore. This is one of the renowned Italian Lakes which serve as tranquil holiday destinations for regular tourists and celebrities alike.

They had been growing fervently

Since after you left

No longer subtle

They escaped the materiality of concrete pot

Becoming something wilder, spilling…

I left them at my mothers,

Tendrils nurtured for many months

Months of absence, silence and nostalgia

We were fathoms, flights, thoughts away

It’s September again now and they are all but gone, browned beyond former belief

In a symbolic move too trite to garner any veritable feelings

There are no hidden rooms here

No secret chambers

Only thrown shadows in which you can nestle

Let those stories, the ones you know too well,

So well that they ring tinnitus in your ears

Let those stories set you on fire

One final time.

Self-immolation