Isobel Dixon’s ‘Positano’

 
 
Positano
Isobel Dixon
 
The villa’s whitewash clotted
scarlet with geraniums,
the bougainvillea’s purple
bruise smeared inbetween –
I sit here, mottled,
in the shadow of the vine.
The sea is welded
to the sky, a beaten
shield, enamelled, glittering
and everything is molten,
rich, beneath this sun,
such grandiose munificence,
the alchemy transforming
even me – slowly, in thrall,
from milk to gold. After
a day among the ruins
of Pompeii, dust still clings,
a pale reminder, to my shoes,
but now I watch the yachts
below and ring the ice against
the bottom of my glass,
an answer to the winking sea,
the tinkling of the masts.
Remember Ripley, wish
I didn’t wish for all of this
and more. This lustrous,
postcard life. Hear
how my darkened hallway’s
silence shudders at the falling
to the mat, implacable,
of crisp, clear-windowed
envelopes, that smother
my bright rectangle,
its foreign stamp,
the lines I sent back
to my dull domestic self:
Wish you were dead,
and I was always whole
and golden, always here.
 
 
 
From A Fold in the Map (Salt Publishing, 2007).

4 thoughts on “Isobel Dixon’s ‘Positano’

  1. Michelle Post author

    Hi Ret🙂 Yes, it’s a fine collection.

    Happy Sunday, mon frere (sheesh, my schoolgirl French!)

  2. johemmant

    Oh I LOVE this. It is utterly delicious. She’s captured the essence of holidays and absolutely here the return. Fabulous.

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