I’m going to leave my detailed description of Europe for the end of my trip; but I want my friends, family members, followers, and anyone else who reads this little posted life to know that it’s been less than a week and I absolutely love it here.
Regretfully, today I’m not feeling too hot. Figures that the person who drinks so little cider would still get so sick. Tonight, I take it easy. I write. I read. I ponder. I postcard. This will be my evening in London, sipping at hot tea for the third time today, resting on a tiny bed among three others, and staring at the little battery icon on my phone charger praying for that little lightning bolt to disappear, signalling (we are using British spelling here) a battery life fulfilled.
I’m going back to my room to rest, but for now I will include a poem for your reading—and my writing—pleasure.
An on-the-spot poem dedicated to my first three countries visited:
Dublin, how you shamrock
from their designated locations,
three leaves like little hearts,
pounding in green, white, and orange,
to every footstep along
I fall asleep as I float away from you
to a quieter place, all red dragons
and closed shops,
passing places with names I cannot pronounce,
visiting castles with stairs that rise toward Heaven
or a perfect photo spot,
my camera small and clinking
against two pounds and fifty pence,
which I later spend in London:
money toward late night Internet chats
toward a night of musical death,
twins and blood and superstition,
and my throat, sore and sad,
lies in want of sleep.