In the Shadow of the Silent Mountain

The shadows from the silent mountains cast across our walks beneath blue skies and sullen cloud, above squeaking snow, cloying mud, cobbles and diamond tiles, beech leaves and crocuses, paths, icicles and stalactites, chimney smoke, spray from winter streams and waves against the sea wall; over chestnut and dairy farmers, joggers, cobblers and their grand children, priests, geologists and motor bikers, playground mimics, salamanders, unseen birds of prey, cows, dogs and goats; on Lucia, Lucio, Enzo, on Carla, Julie, Domenico, Caroline and Chiara. I heard the shadows, saw them, but couldn’t write them, couldn’t record them: that was their silence.