A Season in Paradise

A season in paradise - part one
Empty plates on the kitchen table and a half glass of beer,
summer shower and the stereo that buzzes next door
mustn’t forget to water plants before bed.

Hot misty days and the lake the colour of dishwater
there’s a puddle beneath the clothes drying in the hallway
and the coat hangers strapped to the architraves.

Chipped tiles, wrought iron balconies and wooden shutters.
The door bell’s out of order but next to is a signs warns:
Knock Loudly!

A season in paradise - part two
From the open windows the sound of traffic at two a.m.
softer than the whooshing sound of the fountain
at the centre of the traffic island outside
or the church bells.

A crash of thunder, clouds collide above the hills
sparks fly. Down the hall men’s voices
whispering softly in the next room,
an aroma of marijuana.

Electronic music on the stero, turned low and the
pots and pans still waiting to be washed stacked
inside the sink. I write because I cannot sleep, I read
not to weep.

After all, I’m home again.

A season in paradise - part three
Freshness of morning: jasmine and rose
Melted snow, mountain crown, dew
evaporating from palm fronds, air
so clean it pierces my lungs.
Running to the park
past villas with sundials
frescoed on the facade and
solid walls around them,
moss growing in the shadiest corners,
with high iron gates twisted into the shapes
of flowers and leaves and spikes at the top.
The geraniums spread their tomato scent
throught the manicured gardens, the aroma
of soil and the trickling of water.
To the north, an ancient tower overlooks the valley.
Below me, the lake is as smooth and shiny as glass.

A season in paradise - part four
Intellectual reasonings over a full plate of penne and basil sauce,
on account of wether Do The Right Thing or La Haine is more revolutionary
than the other.
Six coffee makers stand empty on the stained stove.
Cigarette butts grow in a pile inside the ashtrays stolen from pubs.
Recycling bins under the sink.
Mango and avocado trees grow in the music room, and jasmine,
in an iron bucket that hangs from the toilet ceiling.
Three computers and a turtle running free.
Z deejays reggae in a coffee shop, ND plays the synth in an electronic band.
I spend my days writing at the kitchen table.
Sometimes we go to parties, or swimming in the lake, or hiking in the mountains.
Every morning I awake to the sound of church bells and the scent of chestnut trees in bloom,
the lake is but a still tongue between mountain teeth.