“Mosaics! Lie down here, and create a design!” a craftsman demands.
“Maybe. Sometime,” laugh twirling mosaic pieces above.
“Sometime. Never!” chuckle others, swinging earthy sides into view, then rich enamelled colours as they clump where they like.
A pattern of harmonising deep-sea blues, accompanying greens, forms briefly. Flecks of white, as foam on waves dash by. Down, deep down, into the water, under the rocks, those darkening, silent, luminous blues.
A finger in the limpid turquoise high above, dreamily swishes circles. Flashing by, are small red and orange fish, tail fins twisting & teasing.
Densely green fronds sway. He had named me Kelpie, like the seaweed he said. Kelly, for the Irish past, the rest, floating freely along a shallow Irish coastal edge.
Later, came mosaics instead, solid pieces, a cacophony of colours; sifting, selecting, searching... A group comes together, clicking, and swings...
There are ox blood reds with a rusted surface, some burnt oranges, lining the others’ edges; then arrives a lemon or two, zesty and cheeky, knowing that they will divert attention...
However, warm lantern chrome, will move in soon, beside, to mellow and soothe.
Will the dark, shining, flat cloth blacks make a statement ? They are positioning carefully, now, but soon will dance beside the emeralds.
Suddenly, Renaissance gilded pieces are leaping out, catching the sunshine on St. Mark’s facade. The Iron Horses nod their heads, the ancient bells there, chime.
Not far away, every colour is now lapping on the water, petal-shaped. There are upside-down reflections in the mosaics. of gold, of terracotta walls and ivory and stone balustrades...tiny strolling mannequins in bell dresses and masks.
Perhaps some young mosaics are curious, and submitting to forming patterns? They start drawing together as they descend to lie expectantly on the waiting work surface.
Violet shapes foretell deepening evening, with fireflies, stars pricking a navy blue expanse. On the earth, moonflowers, creamy white, display, as now, only once a year in the night. But warm fire embers glow until daylight, when a chorus of crickets will subside.
As more mosaic pieces settle, edging tightly, close together, the fall of light light alters, moves, and changes, revealing differing secrets.
The blacks, whites, greys, invite and lead into a world where outlines can be observed, shapes are distinct, random letters, words, and thoughts, accumulate.... to be pressed down carefully, to be preserved... joining traditions with history...
Amai has lived Africa, Italy, England. Dreaming, now.
