Sicily is just a memory now,

A sunny spot I venture towards in my mind.

 

It is the taste

Of bright red tomatoes. Dressed only with vinegar,

Olive oil,

Salt.

 

It is the feel of sunlight on my skin, always

A little too hot.

It is pistachio gelato, dripping over my fingers,

Melting faster than I can eat it.

 

It is a lime-green fig

Plucked from a tree

Nubile flesh peeling open to reveal

Honeyed syrup,

Dark aubergine intestines. Sweetness.

 

It is the buoyancy of the salty sea

Making my eyes sting. Blink. Tear.

It is the smell of rubbish sweating in the heat.

 

It is a mulberry bursting in fingers

High up in the branches

Purple-red, blood-like liquid staining hands.

 

It is laughter

Hand-sore-from-frantic-scribbling

Death ever present

Wonder.