The blog urban travel tales since its start in May 2012 aims at reminding the wealth of Cultural Heritage and the urgent need to take action for the protection of the environment. The blog has been awarded 3 times by blogger groups.
The posts uploaded are my original texts that appear here for the first time, thoroughly researched, edited or experienced. My approach is that of a traveler’s, not a tourist’s.
The photos are all my own, unless otherwise stated with reference to the source.
Any republishing or reproduction of the content is covered by the copyright.
Enjoy your visit!
2017 © Copyright. All rights reserved; first posted: 14 February 2017 – revised 28 November 2018
this post is dedicated to my mother
Winter has swept off the striking green, leaving dark branches where there was foliage before. Up on the trees a second trail unfolds, soggy crossroads lead to deadlocks – some
branches ravel into knots, others split abruptly – what a puzzle.
I am staring in search of a treasure
that has been kept hidden.
Hidden or stolen?
Does it matter? The point is that it was kept away from me. I could not cherish it or share it; could not lend it or sell it.
How long has it taken for the green to turn into copper red drying out like yellow swags from curtain rails?
It took longer than two months – it was done so slowly, reluctantly. The final metamorphosis happened over a week-end.
A strong bust of wind swirled around brushing off the last that still trembled in full visibility at the edge of disappearance. The houses started emitting signals, and the street lamps, seen from afar, were shedding their yellowish tremor against a dim opalescence.
I had been idle, just walking and I saw the leaves brought down all at once.
What about these shadows that are moving behind windowpanes?
You would not have seen them before, it was the foliage.
Rush, they turn on the light before four o’clock now. Yes, rush, before they pull the blinds, when they return home from work, rush, rush.
By mid February the days are getting longer again. Behind the crocheted evergreens, a number of anaemic sunsets lie down their mats on the fields at the awakening of vigilant sounds, surrounded by invisible creatures.
Who would interpret these ttttitu and ffrrrr for me, please?
This is not my mother tongue. Look up at this tree – an open palm extended,
pleading for a reading, a caress, a kiss.
Love – this is the word in the first page of the dictionary.
This is a landscape of Love.
And all dead share the same country, the same language.
No passports. No borders. No need for dictionaries.
I kept walking along the riverside from Kingston-upon-Thames to Richmond, Surrey, UK from mid-September 2015 to the early spring of 2017.
I have been patiently reconnecting the dots praying that they would lead me further ahead.
I kept walking, immersed in the shadows and in poetic imagery, enveloped in silence…
2017 © Copyright. All rights reserved for texts and photos – revised March 2018, June 2022
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