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There’s nothing black or white about Hu Min’s photograph of this peasant girl ankle deep in the dry stalks of a field in Shandong province the northern country a flat blur behind save for the thumb print tree idea or smudge nudging her left shoulder so level against the horizon
it’s then you notice the straight line of her eyes line of her hair line of her lips and the dipping right shoulder
pulled down by the weight of a cloth bag she’s clutching so tightly as though taking the photo is taking her worldly possessions and all would be missing then :
whatever was in the cart behind the crop at her feet the light in her eyes and the left or right shoe which ever went first leaving the other one, odd.
In India, she said, anything is possible let me tell you once I saw a man cycling his sewing machine as though to stitch up miles borders to hold his elaborate cloth the sun embroidering as he went in gilt sheen of light and lake glistering bright in jewels to hide the darker cloth, black fear of never finishing his work when all those villages awake, the day and the world's cloth never enough to clothe expectations.
Brighton Beach A day trip to Brighton on British Rail rolling through lush green countryside silver birches, maples sprouting wildly or gathering strength in clumps behind hedgerows, the stony beach at its best they say, weeks ago before the sun melted winter’s soft underfoot snow, before spring and its thousand wooden deck chairs clattered on rolling rocks.
Blue Grotto, Capri Beneath the rock arch we lay flat in a deep sided boat as the oarsmen’s arms pulled along the chain’s length— our Trojan boat entering phosphorescent caves of sapphire sea.
Pompeii Captured in molten lava a dog pulls its chain— our hearts turn to ash.
Olympia No vast holdings here, a meagre existence endless rows of olive tress, orchards tucked in valley folds where simple huts shelter man and wife and beast. Donkey bells jangle at the night, dogs bark beneath the moon and they say that wild jackals prowl across midnight paths.
Paleokastritsa After the village market we walked towards the sea, zucchini blossom alive with bees and the bright yellow of sun— further afield we went our separate ways, some to the old palace others to the monastery or west to Paleokastritsa where you and I settled for strawberries, milk and love in a tiny hut by the sea.
On the third day I discover the world of the Earl of Lonsdale Cheddar, mushrooms and Argentinian
wine flowing well together. The Earl’s leather lounges gather souls from the rain outside
eddying rubbish in gutters. The young man taking orders says he’s from the deep south
New Zealand’s Timaru – my memory more of the lower north than his deep south and my Sydney neighbour from there—
not such a small world when I can’t recall her maiden name— Timaru, half port sea swept
on the flattened coastal plane stretching to Dunedin. Here in Notting Hill the young man
he and I and the navy man and the late arrival reading Agatha Christie by a cold fire
we are washed here together. I imagine fires in winter here and when snow swirls deep in Timaru.
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