The big chill

by Lorenzo Piccoli


One week ago I went for a short and very random hike on the Ardennes with Alejandra, Daniel, Mita, and Toni. Thinking back about it now, that experience gives a brand new sense to the second last stanza of Thomas’ poem: Take me like some pilgrim / from the north, stumbling, sloshing / through this blankness, this / nakedness. /I am stripped of / my colour now. I am walking / amongst these frozen poplars as an insider.

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