TRUE STORY
.
I grew up poor, but there was a lot of money
.
I grew up rich, but I never saw any money
.
I had the wealth of ages, and donkeys and mountains and wildflower-woven villages, and the infinite succour of the sea
.
Lemons daily stang my tongue, sore with longing
.
My roots fell into Cypriot pebbles and got tangled there. They don’t know how to get out. Now they live under a carob tree and send me the tigers I need.
.
The wild salty hotness stripped me bare of my skin
.
The salty bones on the beach sank their teeth into me
.
My skin prickles in the itching salt
.
It is heat-red from the piercing sun-eye of the bold relentless sky or wind
.
A sudden church offers waxy limbs and heavy cool sheltering dark with gold in
.
In there is my soul’s heartsease and hunger
.
I am not really here, and only here can I live
.
Candles will light me
.
The ancient sand-stuck candles of the bees of my honey of the forest of my life
.
They light my way
.
In the folding dark of England
*************************
Listen to Sarah reading the above text:
![](https://assets-proxy.steadyhq.com/https%3A%2F%2Fsteady.imgix.net%2Fproduction%2Fpost%2F507ee80c-9889-4f94-8dd9-243f8267b108%2Fuploads%2Fimages%2Fnwzn7cscgg%2Fcyprussketch-damagedvirgin.png?auto=compress&w=800&fit=max&dpr=2&fm=webp&s=a1e4491706ac0a6a5d60339d0b71f1af)
Image: a sketch of a damaged icon of the Virgin, Church of St John the Baptist, Paphos, Cyprus. © Sarah Dixon