Italy
My mother
Lined her bathub with shells.
They spoke of another world, when I
Had not existed.
The weather today echoes them, as
rain falls loosely,
Streaking the trees with white
And the road with grey.
In Italy, shells are commonplace.
The child in me is cheated.
Lined her bathub with shells.
They spoke of another world, when I
Had not existed.
The weather today echoes them, as
rain falls loosely,
Streaking the trees with white
And the road with grey.
In Italy, shells are commonplace.
The child in me is cheated.