George Cloony lives there.


Intoxicated by the height. 
Paths running from here 
to everyway but up.
For we are already there 
The top of the world. 
A place of rugged stone 
and sparse spiked grass. 
Poor but for the wealth of blue, 

In this place 
where mountain dreams 
and high crystal streams begin. 
Where drafts blow down 
from snow scented air
throughout the year. 
It is summer now 
in the mountains above Como. 

We are windmills 
blowing in the breeze. 
Horsing for the camera 
and the joy of freedom. 
The pleasure of being 
for this once, together. 
No pressure, no work 
no school or timetables

An eternity of fourteen days 
in this dream of Italy.
In the morning 
we had sailed out on the lake. 
The island tiny and picturesque, 
we took lunch their 
in the steaming air. Do you remember? 

She pointed in excitement.
A woman in blue
with lips as red 
as rich Barbarisco 
“Look George Clooney lives there” 
But we didn’t care. 
All we wanted 
was ice cream. 

The heat pulled mist 
from the languid stream 
that flowed from the heart 
of that paradise.
The drive to the mountains 
a switchback adventure. 
Bend on bend 
as we climb higher. 

Adam, only eight, slept, 
tired from the walking 
and the climbing 
and we drove in blessed silence. 
We flew into clouds 
and cool air. 
And then that break 
where we tumbled out 

“Look” Adam pointed down. 
“George Clooney lives there, 
but we don’t care” 
We were windmills 
in the mountain air.

© Dave Kavanagh 2016

© Dave Kavanagh @

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