In 2006 my younger son, Louis, took me on a renaissance tour of Italy, making up, he said, for a lack of inspired presents in previous years. It was quite magical - I brought back a full notebook and a full camera.   

Snow in Bologna

Bologna, Spring 2006

It was only March, so, no surprise

to someone who lives in Scotland

to hear the grey flakes whispering,

moving diagonally to make

lace on my shivering shoulders,

as we paced the piazza.

The guide frowned, puzzled,

her touch screen had not warned         

of inclement weather.

Her ‘You must have brought it with you’

only partly a joke.

Outside, the view whited out,

but we walked to a café  

and drank thick chocolate.

Later, you slept and I slipped

away, found the museum where

the old instruments hung like

bandits on show.

An exploded lute,

a warped flute,

quarto music books,

a little wrinkled,

a single viol.

I pressed my ear

to the muting glass,

saying over and over

‘Ciciliano, Ciciliano.’

and found it strange,

in that 500 year old air,

not to hear it singing,

much stranger

than March snow in Bologna

Chiesa di S.Giorgio Maggiore,

Venice 2006

Ten euros for the tower.

We are hot already, unlikely

to enjoy the climb, stopping

for longer rests at shorter intervals,

just to hunt down that view.

We weigh up the discomfort.

You shrug, I succumb,

we walk towards the stairs,

to face a netting wall.

A robed and tonsured monk

approaches, motions us

towards a gleaming lift.

Long forbidden, long sloping

steps with shallow drops

encircle the lift shaft,

its steel skeleton humming.

We watch the stairs recede,

the monk smiles, speechless.

A swirl of wind balloons my skirt,

we lean out of our brick basket

blinded by sun on white buildings

and water, light that trembles

flashes evidence of glass on boats.

Water buses like fat woodlice interlace

with speedboats darting between

in joyful, suicidal transits,

a liner at rest, a Gulliver sleeping,

disturbs the scale of boats, buildings

and the grandest of canals, wearing

its gondolas, a plague of stick insects.

The monk is patient, speechless,

waiting for us to tire of the world,

seen as half-map, half-model below.

I raise my camera, catch a habitual

impatience cross his face; he knows

and I know the futility of possession.

 Review

Something in the Blood

a chapbook published by Selkirk Lapwing Press

There’s an Italian flavour to many of the early poems in Vivien Jones’ book, plus several haiku and one wince-inducing line in ‘The Mermaid’s Song’, but the collection really hits its stride later on, when she gets much closer to home.

‘Best Medicine’, ‘Belated’ and ‘Chambers Street Museum, Edinburgh’, deal with motherhood and family relationships with a nice balance of gentle humour and poignancy, while ‘After The Music’ and ‘A New Viol’ build on that, with the former making good use of form and repetition, and the latter boasting the splendid line “How I love yew”. When Jones sets about disputing her own line “as if life itself could be silenced”, she’s at her best, a poet engaging with vitality and honest passion.

Matt Merrit in Sphinx Chapbook Review

Fountain ; Bologna

Touching A Wasp  

Slow summer haze, windows thrown wide

exchanging hot air inside for hot air outside.

The fridge ticks energetically.

Damn wasp zigs across the kitchen

exploring the spaces in the fruit bowl,

gathered at the compost bin, yellow legs akimbo.

Heart in mouth, I make a wide detour to the sink.

I run the water, reach for the soap  

My fingers touch a pulsing bead,  

stiff wings stroke my flesh, once.

For a second, I like the wasp.

Then, of course, it stings.

In 2008, along with several other writers, I took part in a Kinetic Poetry project - creating poems to be animated - if you'd like to see the results visit http://www.dgaaweb.net/      There was a launch event at the Wigtown Book Festival in a red velvet cinema-in-a-tent, in a gale, which felt like a Dorothy moment......

This is a piece of flash fiction - a sound bite of words that tells a story in 250 words or less - a great way to practice brevity !

The Wrong Door

The restaurant was trendy and ill-lit. Laura stumbled towards the Ladies. She’d left her glasses on the table and her napkin tucked into the belt of her little black dress. She came to a lit door and pushed through.White kitchen light blinded her. Her arm was seized in a fierce grip. A huge sweating chef pulled her over to a table covered in white plates.

‘You plate the salmon, I’ll drizzle the sauce.’ He barked at her, handing her a pair of tongs.

‘But I’m……...’ she pulled away.

‘Shut-up, we’re running late. Just get on with it.’

The chef pushed a tray of salmon steaks towards her, motioned violently for her to start. She hesitated. He swore, wrenched the tongs from her hand and hipped her roughly aside. Her free arm was seized by a waiter.

‘Come on, Table 24 has been waiting too long. You take the lambs. I’ll do the veg.’

The waiter pushed her through the doors ahead of him. She stood before her new lover on Table 24 in her little black dress with the stained napkin at her waist.

His eyes widened.

She took a deep breath.

‘Sacrificial lamb, Sir ?’ she enquired.

I also love photography - I'm fascinated by textures in nature, particularly those I can see on my daily walks around our estuary village.