Dear Island,

How have you been? So long I’ve been wanted to visit you…

Hereinafter

I will come back to step on your cliffs and hills.

How long has it been since that goodbye?

five years?

It seems longer…it seems shorter…it seems right…

I still remember

my ticket to Ryde on the ferry:

I had packed “winter” and I found a heat wave.

My suitcase was an anvil (daring ignorance!

One thinks that there are no shops in the visiting lands)

 

From that unique adventure, I recall every instant

although there’s no room in the poem for every memory…

But there is room for your beaches of greyish clouds,

your watercolour ports with their mooring boats,

your thatched roofed houses are from a fairy tale

and your picturesque countryside crowns your inlets.

 

When I think of your autumn, with its golden leaves

and the capricious rain, nostalgia comes to me;

When I think of your winter, the air, frigid and merciless runs through

my clothing and my skin;

And that spring of intense colours

wave along the landscapes of the pictures I took.

 

One day I moved away… I had to do it then

or I could never have. You absorbed me,

Isolated as you live, you were holding me there.

Carrying my luggage, I left during the night,

as I had done before; Yet you knew

that on that occasion it was a farewell.

 

Dear Island,

You were the end of the world, but…so beautiful!

 

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Isabel Sánchez H.

"Cazadora de un resplandor etéreo. Vuela."