Starved of sun, starved of light and air
even the most moribund streets become visionary,
suburban dust humidified by the sea’s flood
dying canals of thought revived . . .
there is a green hill far away, above a harbour rising
do not rest, but rather gather inside
shoals of light which distort
through a spectrum of years
way back
Torleon
North Devon.
Square white house upon a hill
white, very white, red-tiled, all four compass ways in sight,
sets off some slow fuse
fogging the alleyways below,
until, along with all other dwellings, yards and sheds
they disappear under grass and loam
the green hill becomes remote, the window’s eyes reflecting tidal foam
lost in a fictional country more real than reality
sage green mysterious door
fire escapes dissolve
bright shrubs and flowers
tears in my eyes
an explosion of weeds
to be young again.
.
Text and photos Lawrence Freiesleben
.