![]() Smoke hung above the seashore and the smell was of desolation, decay, the burning of tires and fuel oil. The streets of Playa de las Americas were flowing with beer and black sewage and blood. Synge, Poems and Translations from Petrarch (1906)ĭawn over the turquoise shore of Africa and here, under the fractured light of a streetlamp, brought to earth like some hurricaned palm, I woke before the supine ocean amidst a sea of glass and upturned bus stands and the wreck of cars and looted stores. Great wariness… But Death had his grudge against meĪnd he got up in the way, like an armed robber, with a ![]() ![]() My sweet enemy was, little by little, giving over her The second book in the Michael Forsythe series, 2006
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