It was from
But it began life later on in
Scribbles on the side of the road in Salinurfa,
It witnessed lonely nights from Diyabakhir,
Rolling into Van, Tatvan,
And onto the madness and whisky of
It saw Her, in the valley,
It climbed into the Himalayas,
Went onto to the base of
Getting its fill at four thousand metres.
It came back to
Followed me, to Pokhara where three months after meeting we parted ways,
Sent off in a black out, with a hand written receipt and a whole side covered in stamps,
That left my tongue so sore, recording all the escapades of ones who had not,
It traveled down through sub-continental
Bound for the home of its owner,
As it’s three brother had before.
It was lost… in Mulgrave.
The last garbled transmissions, fragments in my mind trying to coagulate,
Duplicate down page margins,
It’s gone, it’s gone, it’s…
I can almost reach it…
From here in
Going going… on.
Three months wasted in two hundred pages ,
Three months in handwriting I can’t read between the lines of,
Lost lines when I could have been following curves,
Chasing skirts or observing others customs on a lonely planet,
Independent travel advice for an independent travelling idiot…
…don’t put precious things in the post.
But that was NOT all she wrote,
She wrote me back,
Right down the back of a fat chance,
That the book would float up back to the abode of the snows.
Was lost, now found.
The box sits in front of me,
My smile like an over-excited child,
My thanks to one woman named Hillary,
My fourth book is back the-fuck in front of me.
Oohh, you just try and get it off of me again!
...I double-dare you.
Somewhere there is a woman named Hillary Crandall, hero to a man with a fake name, insufficient hope and faith in mankind, who got a little more than both delivered to his door today.
Happy Days! Thank you Hillary.