I walk on cobbled and chipped streets.
The smells and the sounds of Stresa and Baveno
on a warm Spring day, come back to me.
Prosciutto pizza with you under the
plain trees remind me of Lygon Street,
and I’m homesick for both.
A scarf of burnt orange moves in the breeze,
and the colour blends in with the architecture;
the sound of Paganini fades, and I’m alone.