Act One: Scene One

One is a memory, one is a betrayal.

I am on the hilltop, by a pool beside the olive trees

There is a lady talking with a prospective client

She is excelling at selling:

The chateau is three thousand euros for the day

And five hundred euros for the pool

The chapel is a thousand euros

Or fifteen hundred if decorated

Everything it seems is ‘extra’

I expect that soon

The gentleman will cease

Asking his leading questions

You want food?

Yes, that will be extra

Good food, or very good food

That also is extra

He says that he, and his wife to be

Want to give a good impression

He doesn’t ask, but I fear

That the ‘good impression’ may also be an extra

Ha, the guest rooms

Yes, they are also an additional cost

And the staff?

Well, of course, they are charged by the hour!

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56040 Province of Pisa

The old, withered, oak stump

Is surrounded by new life

New saplings are growing

The cockerel crows

Preparations are in progress

Chairs and tables moved around

Rosemary, collected and bottled in oil

Swimming pool surface cleaned

Soon it will be the time

For the (casual dress) rehearsal

With couple and celebrant

Each learning their expected lines

I am down the lane

Round the back of the hotel

I listen to birdsong

I photograph the wild flowers

There are windmills on the skyline

Hillsides are both near, and far distant

Some being populated with cypress trees

Who then, would doubt that this is beauty

Today there is a sun

The sky is far more blue than grey

Of course it won’t always be this way

But for the moment let us be thankful

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Afternoon

Above the clouds 

Clear blue sky

‘Customs Union’ 

Is in the news

But for now 

Free passage 

Well

Not exactly free

Indeed

Quite the opposite actually 

But you do get my drift 

Don’t you

Lauri Loft

No.2 via Catarina

Four people ascend serially

In the one-person lift

Two couples

Each pair

Having their own bedroom

With en-suite bathroom

Swiftly we are out onto the street

Where we pause for gelato ice-creams

One each is chosen:

Pistachio, pear, mango, and milk

Next it is a short stroll

Down the cobbled road

To the rear

Of the leaning tower

Tickets are purchased

For the cathedral

Also

For the ‘Place of Miracles’

Followed by a few words

To confirm the stasis

Or the stability

Of the lean

 

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Steal What Else There Is To Steal + My Own Fair Hand A Wayward Strand

The wretched pace of saving face

No more than a single drink

What I’ve become, by staying shtum

Does not stand to rhyme nor reason

The hamster wheel and electric eel

Steal what else there is to steal

Seal the casket, with neoprene gasket

It is mornings which are the worst

My own collusion brings self delusion

I would be better somewhere safe

The solitary walker, the midnight stalker

My past life led from reel to reel

Magic Numbers midnight slumbers

My mind can make a ready meal

As you walk away, just another day

For my insides out to slyly feel

Limpet rocks and lifetime stock

Shock the sense to deal

Without compassion, absolute of ration

Crock a wound to heal

One day at a time, a find sublime

A mantra as I calmly kneel

Shee Vo Hum, Shee Vo Hum, Shee Vo Hum

Under my breath, it is the breath I steal

How long I’ve tried, how close I’ve cried

Hopeless as those past gestations peel

Another bell, the ringers tell

Scope to wreck my leafy land of zeal

My own fair hand, a wayward strand

I came across altogether unreal

My golden voice, my freedom’s choice

Ponderous, before eventually I yield

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For Me My Stem It Said So

Again then

My stem

Stated not to name

Tension climbs the spine

Pulls right across the shoulder

Brought on by

Being of the bold

In the untold middle of nowhere

The water

Runs slowly into 

The drain below

Below the wisteria

Below the bamboo cane

The clay and slate rotate

In some forbade rectangle

Emigrate

It’s not too late 

For you and Mr. Bojangles

A corner light, a mistook sight

Mistletoes of Spanish rain

Temeraire from County Clare

The swollen peace there to sustain

The clock ticks

The room is cold

Olden days

Are over

Silence is the pastime

Write once more the last rhyme

Onward goes the beach wise drover

With the loss of heather and clover

Carriages and crucibles

Rubies and cubicles

Statuettes of liberation

The siren and the seagull

Drift through shores of evil

From wave to wave

They crave

Until the neaps

Are fair full

Carved wood

Fallen leaf 

Compost 

By the thrush

It is no shame

Again then

Not to name

For me

My stem

It said so

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