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
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Listen to Sarah reading the above text:
Image: a sketch of a damaged icon of the Virgin, Church of St John the Baptist, Paphos, Cyprus. © Sarah Dixon
