On the second day,
Two layers of reinforced glass:
Press my camera phone flat against the first
It notes only
an alpine raindrop skating across
the second, notes only
that counter-journey, a self-summoning
of its own endless kinesis
In the Uffizi a girl takes a selfie in front of a Botticelli.
We pad, pant, chase shade.
Our entire flesh sweats.
Green shutters bake on cream walls.
Terracotta hardens its cap on each roof.
Ankles rime with dust.
of Euros for entry fares
for slices of coconut bathing
in stainless steel fountains
The mind is wrung.
A vending machine crouches at the end of a crypt in Santa Croce.
Via San Donato in Collina
Cleaned-out tomato tin,
Stick of palm on vinyl table,
Cool tiles to sweep clear of onion skin
Fragments, pine needles, occasional
Splashes of coffee grounds.
The Tuscan air relaxes, cradles
Bird and insect sounds,
Lulling, laying them on the groves
And hills. Bounded
By thunder that hours ago made
Clouds sweat long rain
Just before Teignmouth
my phone storage was full
so I tried to memorise it, for all time:
Wizened grey cloud lightening to mallow,
a left yacht, anchor for a
spread stilled like table cloth,
Finally railings, broad, straight with rust.
grit not dust
a different tasting salt.
Here too, bleaching;
here too trod modernity
A peg left on my line
is now bridged
made homely with spider silk
Nature discards nothing
seizes in stillness
But like a wave
towards a sandcastle
I am driven by momentum and I
squeeze the legs together from underneath