call me down to Balcombe when the sun licks the reservoir
and i can touch Ardingly with a pointy stick. Ardingly,
pronounced Arding-lie, is one of West Sussex’s many blades of grass,
and the one that i balance on like a ladybird.
my home is in Balcombe. no. my house is in Balcombe.
my home is probably in the heights of the Paro valley,
or in the vineyards of Bordeaux, or northern Italy, or
wherever there is wine and people more tanned than me.
in Balcombe there is only three days of sun a year (that’s
a lie), but that is still more than Osmotherly. i’ve never
lived there but i want to. i’ve only ever lived in
Balcombe. Balcombe’s like my middle-name, a part of me
but a part that no one knows. a part that i
forget. but still it lies there. lurking.
so call me and i’ll ride my bike down to the village,
but only call me when the sun sets.
call me (Luca) when the sun sets.