Today a doomy poem and glimpses from the waterfront of Trieste, a city bound in nostalgia and history.
But first, three times that I was by the sea in Trieste:
Bound out Bound to find out it’s easier to go out with a whisper than a flame, bound to think it only happens to other people, you will be happened to. Round on the way. Re- bound on the way. Out- run on the way. In ground all the way.
The photos below – of the port and the waterfront, the Canal Grande (really very piccolo), and the Piazza Unità d’Italia – are from two visits.
The first part until the fisherman is from 2015 when amore and I continued from the port to the Miramare Castle. It was 6 am, amore just rode into town on the night train, hence the lovely light.
The second half is from another summer three years later when father took me to Trieste from Piran with the regular boat line. It felt good to invade Italy from sea. (Why do I write Trieste, like Italians do it? I should say Trst, in Slovenian. Yeah, there you go, remove all the vowels. Trst is – also, as much – ours.)
If you are curious about the history of Trieste, and there is plenty of it, I recommend the book by Jan Morris, called Trieste and the Meaning of Nowhere. Never has the title been more spot on.
In response to Patrick Jennings’ Pic and a Word Challenge #290: Outbound
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