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I’m too productive
to look out of train windows
taking photographs.

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.