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,
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
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
Death ever present