RANDOM ECHOES - ITALY 26/10/05

Fog again this morning; dense and with that permanent sense of being enclosed in one’s immediate space - the white noise of nothing, a blank canvas.

Each vine thick with
Rotten moments
Dribble tearful
Attacked
Tries to retain dignity
To hold form
But each quick lap, lick
Or suckerful
Ages and denies them
Quintessence and they are
Sweet offal for hornets
Prophesying dangerous,
Open-sored and split words
That ooze readily
When trying to be honest

What moves in the spaces
Between: the interstices,
The integers?
Their balance and tenure?
A finch with mottled beak
Singing drunk;
Some ungodly things
Dancing, making hellish
Business for the fool
And the beautiful courtesan
Jolly even in face
Of trouble