Donatella took me to the Second floor of the Ospedale Civico,
Where the howls of relatives and angry shouting meant that someone had died,
Dr Pistone couldn’t see me yet, so, to kill some hours,
I took the vespa to a forest near Baida, of eucalypts and firs to sit
Rapt in the almost-silence,
Only birdsong and the crashing-wave sounds of distant cars.
Each sound part of another…
A wind broken up into puffing gusts, waxy leaves trembling
Of an about-to-flower laurel.
A pool of water and blood and squid ink littered with swelling lemon halves,
Thousands of flies.
My words lost on a beach at the point of Ness,
Its open skies. The fishermen brought a giant crab to show my sister
I can barely remember her reaction.