Margaret Jennings Writing Retreat - continued

I'm sitting writing my blog while someone else prepares a beautiful meal for me. I had a lovely pasta meal with salad for lunch, followed by a French Chou Pastry. My host made me a cup of tea, took away my plates and told me to sit back and write. The sky is blue, it is warm outside but cool in the villa. I can hear the sounds of the running water in the pool. 

Apart from the fact I haven't slept properly yet (long standing problem nothing to do with the bed,) and I miss my loved ones back home, I think I'm beginning to unwind. I tried to talk to my children this morning, but the dog took over the FaceTime call. My little doggy seems to have noticed I've gone. It must be bad because my husband admitted letting him sleep in the bed last night. 

I've written another two thousand words on the story I started. Plus I completed one of Margaret Jennings writing exercises. I was asked to write a poem about my first sexual encounter - no way I was doing that - or a romantic moment I remember. 

Poetry and talking about feelings, and I thought I was suppose to relax on this break. 

Margaret let me escort her to Usclas to collect water from a spring. It wasn't bending down with empty plastic bottles in a mountain spring, instead it was a green water hydrant in a little village. I still haven't decided if I like the buildings or countryside around here. It is a strange shabby chic. I have never seen as many different shades of stone, beige and orange colours. 

Anyway, poetry and photos below for you to enjoy - or not! C'est la vie!

And I died as I drove home

His bottom lip reminded me of an orange segment

the kind found in tins at Christmas,

used to decorate cheesecakes at school

or hidden in the jelly of a trifle.

It was sweet, full, filled with promise.

Eyes a soft grey suede, textured within

were effervesce when he laughed.  

A strong jaw line, neck made for kissing.

Hot lava swirled inside me,

my body betraying me to feelings

which I refuse to recognise. Doubt,  

about who I was invaded. I longed to be

wood, solid, safe invincible to his charms.

He created heat with his touch

when I needed to be ice. And,

those eyes prevented my escape.

A faded shirt, cords worn at the seam

I pretended my feeling were virtuous 

my aim was to look after, not to succumb.

I denied my hand the right to rest on his chest

stopped my head from leaning on to his shoulder.

My lips would never press against his skin.

The maelstrom inside would be quietened 

desires held in check, his aroma forgotten.

A firm grip which did not tighten or

break the bones in my fingers

held my hand as we walked to the car.

The pain of saying goodbye hurt my throat.

Stars in the clear icy night were tears.

Lips, soft, wet, tender and surprisingly cold

touched my cheek, a warm goodnight whisper

kissed my ears. And I died as I drove home...

...until he phoned the next day.