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Mountain tops 

From the plane window the mountains were stracciatella ice cream, Black through a dream, I wanted to scoop it up and cut my hands on the sky’s servings.


On the first night in that warm taxi the city seemed to be dowsed in green. Sign posts were luminous phantoms and figures cut up the light in sharp shadows, an ominous puppet show display. I could smell the air even inside the taxi. It seeped through the cracks and there it settled in its algae glaze as if we were really at the bottom of the ocean, moving soundlessly and warmly through wobbling winding streets. To make the situation stranger a foreign tongue warbled from the radio. I felt separate from my surroundings. My seat detached and either sunk to the seabed or floated and bobbed stupidly on the surface.


I am in the sea and it shrinks me. The sun a magnifying glass over an ant. I look down at my feet floating in the blue and think of all the space between toes and murky unknowns. White salt scrapes the back of my throat, a stern caress, my tongue feels scorched and swollen like a whales.


I look back towards the cliff side town. It is steep and many tiered. All colours. White icing outlining windows and doors. In contrast, the sharp jagged cliff face is burly and brutal. The unwanted party guest picking away at cake.

Late night swim in Sorrento 

Our two shadows, adjacent, leaned back on the shore. A night time reflection. The waves pulled in sand under my fingertips. The sea seemed to be breathing. In and out. In and out. White pebbles looked like white eyes glittering and blinking back at me. The pier jutted out in long black legs, a sea creature turned to stone in the mid day sun and is now slow and sad in the dark. Limbs a lively grey against silver strips of sand, ink blot water stains the shore. The pen a tool to outline rocks and row boats. 


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