To Grant…
Wind blows off the white cliffs, rain rolling behind, and a sun will follow. The sounds of thunder and tumbling waves, eating part of tin and chalk, land’s end begins tonight, nothing is left from a lonely summer, the smell of baked pastry hit the heart, but still something is left of him on the sea.
The image shines on the mountain towards the old town, all of them were here, Romans, Huns, and Greeks before, then came us, or maybe we were here when it was all sea and green, she holds him in her arms and recites stories of wandering kings and knights with broken swards, he tries to remember a smell, a touch, a glimpse on the edge of dreams, kan yama kan fe qadeem azzaman… It all came back with a sip of water from the old well; all came back at the edge of the sea.
Bread, olive oil, thyme, cheese and figs on the side, twenty maybe thirty years, months, minutes passed, whoever cares, they never left anything, anyone behind. A tall figure stands with him facing the south, coming closer whispering promises and old tales to the following sun high on the hill, soon it will be spring and we’ll start weaving our mythical tale. A man stands on top, full of him, full of us, smiling all the sky all the sea.
