She who roams by the cemetery
I don’t know whether the woman who roams by the cemetery is Romany, but she is very much lost.
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Walking
The purples of Ronda
We discuss whether or not to distance ourselves from other tourists, without having the language to validate what in other times, would be labelled a prejudice.
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With a bit of perspective
Nothing seemed especially different that day, except perhaps the dissonance between the honeyed glow of the sun in people’s smiling faces and the intuition none of us could afford to be complacent.
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Annulé
The odd car careers around the twist in the road. Another slows hauntingly, to check whether I’m a ghost.
Mandarins in April
Houssem’s yellowing teeth flicker like the flame rising from the pyre of Saharan cypress.
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From sardines to sang froid
As gusts swirl, the mastheads clamour for attention, like the percussion section in a school orchestra.
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The world is a narrow bridge
We quickly clambered on board, punched the holes in our tickets and waved goodbye, the salmon-pink sunset enveloping his family as they faded into the distance.
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