1.0Winslow Eliothttps://winsloweliot.comwinslow eliothttps://winsloweliot.com/author/winslow/rich600338<blockquote class="wp-embedded-content" data-secret="PFgMgyoCeJ"><a href="https://winsloweliot.com/2010/07/this-longing/">This Longing</a></blockquote><iframe sandbox="allow-scripts" security="restricted" src="https://winsloweliot.com/2010/07/this-longing/embed/#?secret=PFgMgyoCeJ" width="600" height="338" title="“This Longing” — Winslow Eliot" data-secret="PFgMgyoCeJ" frameborder="0" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" class="wp-embedded-content"></iframe><script type="text/javascript"> /* <![CDATA[ */ /*! This file is auto-generated */ !function(d,l){"use strict";l.querySelector&&d.addEventListener&&"undefined"!=typeof URL&&(d.wp=d.wp||{},d.wp.receiveEmbedMessage||(d.wp.receiveEmbedMessage=function(e){var t=e.data;if((t||t.secret||t.message||t.value)&&!/[^a-zA-Z0-9]/.test(t.secret)){for(var s,r,n,a=l.querySelectorAll('iframe[data-secret="'+t.secret+'"]'),o=l.querySelectorAll('blockquote[data-secret="'+t.secret+'"]'),c=new RegExp("^https?:$","i"),i=0;i<o.length;i++)o[i].style.display="none";for(i=0;i<a.length;i++)s=a[i],e.source===s.contentWindow&&(s.removeAttribute("style"),"height"===t.message?(1e3<(r=parseInt(t.value,10))?r=1e3:~~r<200&&(r=200),s.height=r):"link"===t.message&&(r=new URL(s.getAttribute("src")),n=new URL(t.value),c.test(n.protocol))&&n.host===r.host&&l.activeElement===s&&(d.top.location.href=t.value))}},d.addEventListener("message",d.wp.receiveEmbedMessage,!1),l.addEventListener("DOMContentLoaded",function(){for(var e,t,s=l.querySelectorAll("iframe.wp-embedded-content"),r=0;r<s.length;r++)(t=(e=s[r]).getAttribute("data-secret"))||(t=Math.random().toString(36).substring(2,12),e.src+="#?secret="+t,e.setAttribute("data-secret",t)),e.contentWindow.postMessage({message:"ready",secret:t},"*")},!1)))}(window,document); /* ]]> */ </script> https://winsloweliot.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/Trees-Plants-2742-001.jpg640480There's an island off the coast that I never went to. I think there's a blue grotto there - we've all heard about it - where wild women, their hips swaying as they work, sing, and sigh. Where the guitar-players with manly chins stubbled and dark, and strong white teeth laugh, and stroke the familiar cat that passes by. There's the sound of children playing in the swell of the waves. We follow the cobblestone road under a sky that's heartbreaking blue to the yellow house with the peeling paint on the edge of a beach that's smooth as a pearl. But none of this matters. All I want is to be with you. The island fades; the city is razed in my heart and the huge flowers wilt like longing that flees before the day.