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I’m back to blue skies,
still sitting at river banks,
soaking up the sun.

Suspended here,
nowhere, between two places
amongst drifting clouds.

Stepping underground,
into a foreign in language
where darkness finds you.

Hung around my neck,
St Christopher guides my way,
makes sure I’m okay.

Night washes away
the painful realities –
replaces with dreams.

Essential items
for my trip to Portugal:
reading and jellies.

The black wet paint shines
like ink to dip our fingers
but we cannot touch.