Date: 12th of August, 2025
Location: Madeira, Portugal
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Poem #1:
All morning I thought of figs.
Quietly, they sit,
beside my makeshift dining table.
The tree talks louder the further August goes on.
I run into the highest point of blue I can reach,
till the mountain says no more.
My legs bear the dust, I’m grateful I bought water.
Would I just be a rock without this life that bleeds through me?
Off the mountain,
In thick accent, I’m handed ameixas
In small plastic, a dozen or so?
Are these from your home?
My Father’s.
Plums. They’ll do.
Days before it was beetroot and corn.
Returning to my stone walls,
I think of the fig tree.
Waiting to nourish me.
I take just one.
One fig for now.
Poem #2:
Every epoch is paired with a flavour.
Lands that felt like the last frontier were salty.
Late summers in France, peaches under castle shade.
Some years, I made myself sick, overdosing on Camembert.
Saved my bread, and Swiss Chocolate.
Taste is amplified by the seasons,
And multiplied by the company.
Yet, it becomes cemented to my core
In the days I feel most alive.
The European Summer of 25’
Will be remembered by the subtle sweetness,
Of the fig tree in the North of Portugal.
Plastic buckets full,
Must be eaten,
In two days.
These days will be remembered by the honeying of figs,
And the forging
Of the man
I am becoming.