Day 6: St Nicholas - or a Gift

She has orange hair in plaits and a red cap and dress.
She carries nothing in her hands; I can carry her in mine.
If I scrunch her, she sounds like fire.
She smells of cupboards and cloth forests.
Flip her skirt over her head, there's a grandmother
with blue hair and a wolf's head hidden in her bonnet.

Day 5: Thirteen Ways of Looking at Home

A fast drive through cold London.  Orange night, orange clouds, white tiles in the Blackwall Tunnel.  The always unexpected right fork to the A21.  The darker dark of the Weald.

The sleepless oven clock.

A ginger cat cleaning himself on the bed beside me, a black cat sitting on my desk.

Three alpacas grazing in the paddock, three hens drinking from the pond.

Your voice coming from the room next door.  The hum of the house when you go for a walk.  I listen in Italian.

The last roses of the year.

The blue Formica of my desk. Its hardly-dare-touch-it cold.

Piles of dry washing in the spare room.  The washing-machine's song.  Your still-unpacked bag.

The sun, setting too early behind the oak tree.

The Time Out Guide to Florence and Mini Italian Dictionary among a pile of papers on the sofa.

A cup of tea, an extra jumper.

Waiting for my mother to get off the phone.

The smell of dead mouse; compost; woodsmoke; the fridge.

Day 4: Between Two Hills

The ground rises sharply as we follow the path.  The air smells of Bay and damp vegetation.  My hair curls around my face and the clouds are low over the hills.  We are almost alone here.  Two women who work at the garden's cafe talk quietly in the doorway as it begins to rain.  Even the plants seem quiet: they've drawn back into the ground and their remaining leaves are brown.  At the bottom of the valley, the Arno reflects brown and orange trees and cream houses.  Raindrops darken my page.

Day 3: Telling the Bees

Last night at the Teatro Comunale Mimi died again, while Rodolfo was looking the other way.  This morning we are walking around the church of San Lorenzo and, despite my protestant disapproval of the reliquaries and gold ceiling, I am moved.  My head is tingling and I want to cry.  I have come here like a broken king, carrying splinters of bone and coils of hair. 

The walls of the church are pale grey against the elephant grey columns, and the votive candles make yellow haloes.  I light a candle and pray for those who die while no one's looking.

Day 2: Standing behind me

in the Uffizi is Leonardo's Gabriel.  His stare is intense, and the folds of his blood-red gown weigh him to the earth.  He kneels and makes a gesture of benediction.  I drop a curtsy, but he waves me on and I realise I'm too old to be Mary and too young for Elizabeth.  Next to me is a Japanese girl in frilly shorts and thigh-high socks.  Her head is bent and there's a lily in her hand.

Reverb11, Day 1: The River's Source

 

Flying into Florence, I look down and see the Arno, greenish and slow-moving.  I lose sight of it as we touch down, but I like to think it's come through the the hills and valleys we flew over a few minutes ago, when I nudged you and pointed out a forest, and you said, 'Mmm, truffles', then went back to your book.  On the bottles of water we bought at the airport I read, 'The Acqua Panna spring is located within the 1300 hectare park surrounding Villa Panna, a fully protected nature reserve since 1564', and, elsewhere on the label, 'Refund at Collection Depots when sold in South Australia'.

Reverb11

 Illustration to Angela Carter's Book of Fairy Tales by Corinna Sargood

I've been in Florence for the past four days and have a lot of catching up to do here, especially as December is the month of Reverb 11.  For those of you who don't know what that means or who might be tempted to join in, I've copied the following open letter from Rebecca's site. 

Dear Inky-Fingered Friend,

You are cordially invited to join Sian and me for a December writing challenge!

Last year I took part in something called Reverb10. It was inspiring and fun and for 31 days I did lots of writing, most of which found its way onto my blog.

This year, instead of leading Reverb11 themselves, the Reverb folk have suggested we come up with our own writing prompts and create a writing community. And so, in the seat-of-the-pants way we embark on things together, Siân and I have decided to do just that.

Reverb11 is a way of reflecting on the year that has just past, and looking forward to 2012. You can use it to both celebrate your life, but also to mourn what you have lost over the past 12 months. We've come up with a list of 31 creative prompts, which we will be posting everyday on Twitter.

If you want to join us then all you need to know is that there are no rules about word count or about whether you write just for yourself (keeping your words safe in a journal) or to share what you create on a blog. It can be as private or public an adventure as you wish.

The prompts are intended to be the catalyst for some freewriting (or drawing): they can be ignored or changed or subverted. Rebellion is positively encouraged.

Today's prompt is:
The river’s source...
Happy writing!

Rebecca and Siân
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