no sun

Un esercizio del corso.
Esposizione di acquerelli della Società irlandese di acquerelli.
Scegliere un’immagine, o quante se ne vogliono.
Io le ho fotografate, per potermele ricordare quando avessi riletto quel che avevo scritto.

No sun, no shadow, he thought.
Is this brown door open, or has someone locked it?
Six grey stairsteps; the third one was mine.
I would sit there in silence. Cars were not the kings of Dublin roads, yet.
No smell of fumes, no noises: you, the pavement, the black glossy rails surrounding the basement, and that was it.
No: that was me.

No noises in Positano as well, if truth be told.
Even now I can see right in front of me that white door of my grandparents’ home, the stairs on the right, the white railings.
And the light, oh god what a glaring light there was.

Maybe one wet petticoat put on the line between the top of the stairs and the lintel of the door.
Was it – that petticoat, I mean – white and sleeveless and loose as I happen to see it now?
Whose was it?
Have I ever seen, there, a woman whose body went caressed by that thin linen fabric?

Red-brown bricks, down in Merrion Square. Grey life, squared and regular just like the sash-windows.
Tuff walls in Positano, the salty smell of the sea, the blue over my red-haired little head.
Blue and red.
Oh, well: blue and orange, to be precise.
Am I blue and orange? Would I like to be such a man?
It’s time to go.

She’s waiting for my call. Brown and soft. Brown, soft and lazy.