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