I could dive into the colours,
inhale the colours,
eat the colours with my eyes,
be lost in them
old Italian buildings: faded pale yellow
peeling ochre
salmon-pink
terracotta red
balconies overspilling with flowers,green plants
and the colours, and the colours,
are just glorious,
peeling away to the two-tone stone beneath,
white marble and brown brick,
so I stroll through as a tourist, idle,
history mild and old, captured in a jar
but
but
and again –
what’s that red but dried blood on skin,
the history is not done.
Today we are gathering from all over Europe,
driving, by train, across the mountain borders and the broad rivers,
a tiny gathering of people in a fascist town,
where the fascists plant their office in the midst of the poorest quarter,
and down an alleyway the footie fans find you and
knock you down.
And on your skin is dried blood.
And the colours are black and white,
together,
all under one sun,
the music plays, the songs bind us,
and again. It was only ever a few, gathered in a small town,
it was only ever
Verona 11.10.24