It’s time to move on from my hidden shores.

If you’re interested to know where I’ll be posting in the future please just like this post or drop me a message.

It goes without saying that I’ll follow my favourites back again.


The last day on Europe’s southern border. A beach so white, waters so blue, pines so very green. No noise, just sea and cicadas. I spent what seemed like ages on end in the sea, swimming and diving against the strong waves, letting them wash me ashore, gripping sand with both my hands, clinging to life like never before. Later we walked in the golden hour across what used to be an Ancient Greek city, Ericlea Minoa. The mountains and valleys stretched right into the sea and my heart was breaking for all the beauty. For now it could still all be forever.

More photos on my Instagram @hiddenshore

Landscapes as wide as any eyes. Yellow and green curving into endless sky and clouds. The light changes constantly, especially inland like the sea currents. Cities dusty and dirty, a lingering sense of a melancholy for another time. People dark and hardy, who should we trust but ourselves? Europe and even Rome are far away. Driving through this island is like a metaphor for surviving something bigger than the sunlight reveals.

Walking through this seemingly deserted town it feels like breathing is heavy, like an undercurrent is constantly rushing through its streets. There is so much life behind these walls, yet the palaces and churches of old stand withered and deserted. A dog followed us, who had the same golden colouring as the decaying stones. We let the pace run us sleepy and ate lunch for two and a half hours. Take me now and bury me deep on top of this hill, take me now and never leave.

This place is wild, pure wonder. Three hours drive from Palermo to the south coast of Sicily. Air so ripe and heavy, aftermath of a thunderstorm. The moon was yellow and as big as our hands, it seemed from another time. There were wildfires eating the dry grass, the mountains were pitch dark giant ghosts. When we finally arrived our host made us fresh antipasti, served garden fruit, home made white wine and limoncello. The heat is a blanket, the cicadas are the night’s only beat. I can feel a pulling, and I’m dreaming of the sea.

“I do not let
go of him yet, but hold the string
and watch my idea of him pull away
and stay, and pull away, my silver kite.”
Sharon Olds, from “Slowly He Starts”, in Leap Year


I wrote on the wind
The name of my love.
I wrote it on the water.
I did not know
That the wind rushes by without listening,
That names dissolve in the water.

Nizar Qabbani, from “The Book of Love,” On Entering the Sea: The Erotic and Other Poetry of Nizar Qabbani (Interlink Pub Group, 2013)

Taking a leave of absence; sitting shiva. Everything is too much: in life, on here. Write to me if you want. I’m hoping to return one day.

“I don’t know how many things there are in this world that have no name. The soft inner side of the elbow, webbed skin between the fingers, a day that wanders out beyond the tidal limits and no longer knows how to summon the moon it has lost, my firstborn who gazes about himself when the TV dies and there is a strange absence in his world. I was looking for a great encyclopaedia, the secret dictionary of all the missing words. I wanted to consult its index and find out what I could have become. The sound the clock makes when it is disconnected and taken down from the wall but can’t lose the habit of trying to jerk itself forward. The look of old socks drying on a rack in the kitchen all through a winter night, hanging starched and sad opposite the wedding photographs. A word for your face when you know you can’t love but would almost like to try. The blurred point of merger between fresh storm damage to a house and the deep fissures that have always been there. Walking down the corridor to the front door with inexplicable elation in my chest as if everything was about to start, as if my love had just arrived, escaped from a burning world, and at the same time clenched in my taut wrists, my hands, the thin bones of my arms, the certainty that everything has long been over.”
Peter Boyle, “Missing Words”

I wanted to tell you all the words
I wanted to make your silent space bloom