Škvor Holiday Houses

Robidisce Weekly

Pesem za Robidišče / Robidišče poem

I look around and see:
A small village high on a hill;
Beds with duvets neatly folded;
Ants scurrying frantically as their home is destroyed,
Picked up and secured in a wall;
Gnocchi neatly lined on a tray;
A bared up hut that was a border post;
A completed task –
A dry stone wall where rocks were before;
Italy surrounded by yellow stars;
Plates scraped clean after every meal;
A view seemingly inserted by photoshop;
Water frothing and bubbling over rocks;
A place I would love to see again.
I listen and hear:
A laughing child;
The silence over a good meal;
Endless singing and laughing as we work;
The periodic crowing of a rooster, drawing attention
To itself over the other birdsong;
Gnocchi lyrics to every song;
A distant car motor distorted by the wind;
A place I would love to hear again.
I sniff and smell:
Clean cloths still dripping wet;
Mint, camomile and lemon, freshly picked;
Fresh food wafting from the kitchen;
Potato clinging to hands and table;
Peas freshly podded in a bowl;
A place I would love to smell again.
I open my mouth and taste:
The most amazing food I have ever eaten;
The gnocchi we made the night before in a beautiful bolognaise source;
A Perfect chocolaty balance in brownies;
Food I would love to taste again.
I stand and feel:
Warm water rhythmically beating down removing dirt;
Sticky potato doe stuck to my fingers;
Light refreshing rain on my face;
The heat of working in gardening gloves,
The sudden burning as my skin brushes nettles;
Working in the sun broken only by rain and shade;
Pyropen burning into wood;
Floating away with the current in cool green water;
A place I will defiantly visit again.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

1 × 1 =

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.