pith…

Lucia, my distant love

You predict me, as ever. Yes, the woods again were where I found myself, wolves singing their hungry sleep songs, but returned to our home, a half empty shell of what we haven’t built, but abide there on our finest days. Fuel for my fires was depleted in days and another week of the dark, damp chill drove me back despite the loss of open cover. Happy to hear your Italian love swells still. You were right to seep away again to Venetian canals. Water becomes you. Flow as you must. If suave exotic love comes gliding in, don’t send it away. But, please, beware the sea. And fear the oarsmen, no more than failed sailors, who would lead you too near. Venice, you remember, was too sodden for me. Too much history, too much dream. Our own ride so clumsy. You, as ever, enduring disappointment, while I, half in, half, feared the swimmers and the moment. I miss you. And mean it. You’re a courtesan above me. I proffer the pedestrian. Release your corset. Return when you’re ready.

Your Jack