Leaving Marco's house ...

Even now, perhaps especially now, looking up at bruised skies, smelling the sad scent of flooded water meadows, I miss the colour and warmth of India - I feel that I have returned to a pale world, peopled by thin ghosts -

I know that soon I will find pleasure again in our valley, that I will soothed by gentle Wareham - I will walk down West Street, finding delight in the row of Georgian houses, I will be diverted by the stories told me by Paul, my barber -

Yet I can still feel, deep within my soul, the sweet pain I felt on leaving Marco's house - there, we had feasted, lolled, given ourselves to reverie -

That last morning there, waiting for the Toyota Innova, I had revisited every part of the garden - I wanted to place, deep in my memory hoard, every bright leaf, every feverish flower -

I looked at Marco's photographs, at the carvings and mirrors - I re-folded The Times of India, placing it upon the antique table from Goa - I ventured, once more, down dream filled corridors -

Most of all, I looked at the faces, and held the hands, of those people I'd met here, Francoise, Veronique, Gustav - I remembered their words and expressions -

I gazed into Tonga's soulful eyes, smelt the sweet breath of his baby son -

The sinewy ancient put on a white shirt to thank us for our petit cadeau - every morning, he'd opened our shutters - then  he'd picked up leaves, each one as big as a page from a magnificent novel -

Marco kissed all of us goodbye - he'd been so generous of his heart and spirit - even now, I turn round in my chair, here in the smokey snug, half expecting to see him, to be embraced once more by his warmth and kindness -