You showed me the apartment in Budapest, phone held up in front of you as you turned in slow circles, laughing at the heat and mist outside. The next day, the ones of us still at home gathered and scanned the Grand Prix crowds for a familiar face. Grandad called to say he’d done the same. but you’d been hidden near the pits you explained that night on FaceTime, glorying in something you loved. You will be back there this year to watch them roar around the track again. I will miss you just as much. I found this poem pretty much fully formed in my draft folder with the date April 17th 2016. Thought it was time to dust it off and get it posted nearly two years later.
The memory has lost some of its sharpness, like a photo with dog-eared corners and thumb worn edges rediscovered from somewhere forgotten and old. But I can still feel the scratch on my palms of chunky stone walls marching onward towards the shore where the sea swam darkening around the ruins of an ancient fort. While the sun sunk beneath the waves and I squinted for a sight of Ireland on the horizon, and the sky turned red and orange and pink and… green. A single streak of emerald, old news to the locals, but pure magic to me. Inspired by today’s Daily Prompt: Vivid
Your apologies came by postcard ink kissed by countries you were meant to see with me.
Grandma travelled the Sahara at eighteen, all she needed packed in two suitcases the one almost forgotten later on at an airport in Ciaro when a young man asked her name. At twenty-five she saw India, found a husband on the roads took her father’s disapproval, wrote a book Love In India Then lost him to the army and swore against rings on fingers till her last breath. Paris was calmer in her words. Less heat more classical sheik in restaurants, and a cafe. Sipping champagne on the Siene but thinking still in India of a man and a smile, of spices and music. Beirut was exciting. Claimed she met Philby, under the cover of darkness in a little bar off a corner. Claimed she kissed him, took his stutter in her mouth thought him very proper. In England she tried to settle, never married but lived with a man her father favoured once. A friend who thought her beautiful, gave her children and ears to tell stories. At ninety she left with a will …
(Source: http://lh6.ggpht.com/_6oxx_tG-VHQ/S6vI8kpAklI/AAAAAAAAGBg/aiEuzJK97WI/LouisFaurer1960Paris_thumb2.jpg?imgmax=800) Paris. The city of love, of romance and she was almost there, just a few stop and a fanfare of screeching breaks would announce the arrival of Miss Tanya Fay, New York’s most elusive model. Betsy crowed into the window beside her, their bodies juddering in time with the train as the French country side slipped past, snow still deep on the ground, hiding any indication of the past thirty years from the passengers. “Mademoiselle, perhaps you and your comapinon would like the come back inside the carrige?” She turned to find the conducter stood behind them. Polite smile firmly in place as the rest of the carrige shot them dark looks from behind books and newspapers. “I’m afraid the cold is coming in,” he explained. “Some of the other passengers have complained.” “Oh let them!” laughed Betsy, pulling Tanya towards the window again. “Who are they to complain about us?”
“Have you ever thought about travelling the world?” he asked her, sliding into the seat across from the one she’d snagged in the corner of the coffee shop. “I hear Nepal is nice this time of year.”“Nepal?” she said, drawing her cappuccino a little closer. “Why Nepal?”He shrugged and fiddled with the handle of his cup.”“I just said, I heard it’s nice this time of year.”“Then go.”“I would, but I can’t alone.”“Girlfriend?”“Not got one.”“Boyfriend?”“Not my type.”“Mother?”“That would just be sad.”She narrowed her eyes at the stranger.“Just take a friend if that’s all that’s stopping you.”“Now that’s a great idea. Hi, my name’s Mark.”“Tammy.”“Tammy, nice to meet you, I think we should be friends.”“We’ve just met, like two seconds ago.”“And already I sure you’re the sort of girl who wants to see Nepal.” (150 Words)
So far there have been more pages turned than footsteps trodden in my life. This isn’t necessarily bad. Those pages and the words have fed into everything I am, everything I want to be, everything I want to do. They have set pins into maps for locations I can see and given me the chance to create for myself that which no longer exists. I could walk the world over and never find the moment when the Parthenon stood whole, or Stephen Sauvestre sat hunched over sketched out plans, or Henry De Audley first saw the finished Red Castle. However, I am not content with pages instead of footsteps, and it is time for my feet to catch up. Time changes all things, sweeping stone to sand and dust. Witness what comes next. A Haibun for DVersePoets. Thank you for the wonderful prompt and a fantastically interesting article.
We walked among roses and he spoke of Paris, of Florence and Venice, of worlds we would travel. We walked among roses until thorns turned to claws and flowers were beautiful no more.
We had it worked out. If we took the long way around, the less direct route, we could see all the sights as we went and still make the eight o’clock reservations. Funny though. I had always thought it would be me who made us late.
The other night was very strange indeed. It didn’t start off strange, it start off fairly normally, if a little dull. (Twenty minute bus journeys with only the company of your iPod, and a severe lack of interesting conversations to eavesdrop on, leads to very dull bus journeys.) The weirdness grew over the night. I felt rather out of place, walking through Bath at half seven at night, on my way to a poetry reading at the ‘Royal Literary and Scientific Institute.’ The dress I had chosen to wear seem to have shrunk overnight, the skirt seemed significantly shorter than when I had last worn it a few days previously and my heels wanted to explore every crack and nook possible. I arrived half an hour early, with no broken ankles fortunately, though I did have the wonderful moment of standing in the middle of a road as a guy showed me directions from his map. No cars came, and I did not end up as one with the road surface. All was well in …