Train through the Tyrrhenian, m.g.t.
Your verdant hills gleam gold-green as the sun shines down its blessing: winter is your healing, far from spring you grow resplendent.
Your mountains I see receding far away are covered in clouds, sprayings and billowings of white-grey curl smokelike in on their summits.
No fires mar your sainted woodscapes, no trenches dug for disappearance: the sleep of cold lulls to it your mankind and all their evils.
Small buildings nestle home within the curves of your soft hillsides, faded whites and pinks and yellows like early eggs to hunt for Easter.
Palms and pines signal the sharpness of your dip into the sea: sudden as it is forbidden, the blue tempts you as it tempts me.
Clusters of a land never quite close or far enough slope gently in and out of the water with their charms: lava pours slow from a corner of a mountaintop, bright red and softly rumbling.
The metal giant glides on its beaten iron path, weaving walks forever taken and yet always beautiful; dirtied glass panes are the eyes through which I peer into your soul.
You are not where I belong to, nor are you the land I live: nonetheless I love to see you in your liminality.













