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The Italian week uncurled

like a tight packed fern frond,

each day a new disclosure

replicating an unlooked for

earthy Tuscan generosity.


Yet in some cynical corner

of your autobiographical memory

a presentiment of that stomach

churning lurch, that upending

rug pull endured, lurking.


Too many early losses

producing a canker of distrust,

a balance sheet approach that says

everything good will have to be

paid for in a painful coinage.


As you slid down the hill

on that final day, guard down,

it happened. The electric fence

protecting the ripe vineyard

was propped open with a stick.


You crouched and thrust a leg

through the aperture of freedom

only to kick the stick and slip

back, hand and full weight on

the horse kick of shocking current.


You knew it immediately for

the moment of retribution,

the payment to the ferryman,

body drumming with energy and

embarrassment, your luck run out.


Yet in the circle of reflection

on the morning of departure

you saw all the rug pulls in another

light and a voice said ‘you know

there is great power in your falling’.


From ‘Arriving in Magic’ Copyright Adrian G R Scott