Bougainvillea smothering your window. Mosaic of sun and shade on the patio.

Oleanders in the wind, cactus slumped over a wall. Sunflowers, flat-faced, serene and smiling. Sonorous sounds of cicadas at dusk and merlins at dawn. Sobbing cadence of a Maltese voice pleading with fractious Too-nio.

“Some island with the sea’s silence on it…”

The High Street on Monday. Morning cacophony. Comforting warmth of the Kangaroo Bar. Ninu and Angela God’s own people. And other Ninus and Angelas will always be carbon copies. Ugo in the Mocambo. Sizzling lampuki perfuming the air. Patient, immobile face of Joe in the Siren’s Bar. “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers”. No, Joe will not forget. Charlie and Phyllis bustling with business; “We are here for your comfort and pleasure.”

Antonio in his hardware shop. Buckets and shovels jostling for position. 60-watt bulbs easily located under cornucopia of mats, hats, baskets and barrels. Lines of enamelled chamber pots clambering for the sky. Antonio full of love for his fellowman; the essence of wisdom. Lucky Antonio. Loud, booming cry of Angelo shouting his wares. Mosè resplendent in crimson rose. “The apparel oft proclaims the man.”

The butcher’s shop. Joe, cool, calm and efficient. Carmelo at his fruit van. Handsome, happy, jolly, kind, pure heart. “How the dickens are you this grand fine mornin’?” imitating your Irish brogue with uncanny exactitude. Charm for everyone. The good, the bad, the beautiful, the plain. Nobody escapes. A social healer, God bless him! Binko, nimble and birdlike flashes you a sudden moon-like smile. Volatile and friendly. Mario at his mother’s door, “Among his earthiest words, the angels stray.”

Felix, the other Francis on the Friary steps flutter of holy hands in a blessed benediction. The boys at Johnnie’s Bar. Indolent and watchful. Victoria still under mimosa tree. Fingers more arthritic. Could not do her crochet today. Was only speaking of you yesterday. Loves your hat and your ‘honest’ kaftan. Calls you Madame. First time for everything. Cikku painting his boat eternally…Heat seeping through your frozen bones from the honey-coloured stone of the fortified tower. Forth shades of blues and greens on the shimmering water. Could you ever entomb this evanescent beauty and put it in your pocket? A red sail floats kite-like between Saint Paul’s islands. And St Paul, he said: “Wisdom in this world is foolishness with God,” and aren’t you inclined to agree with him?

A tiny exquisite lizard fixes you with a cold stare and then speeds down into the green cool of his bamboo world. A mound of ants makes you feel uncomfortably indolent by its feverish diligence. You drag yourself home for a meal of delicious Maltese bread, goat’s cheese and Lachryma Vitis.

And so to Valletta. City of romance and charm. Caught in its age-old embrace. Blanketed in contentment. Mdina, mediaeval marvel. Mystery of Cathedral. Effusion of colour. Comfort of thick walls. Bleating of goats in the distance. Snoring of supine dogs. Shock of sudden bells in the silence.

Glory of Hagar Qim. The Tarxien Temples, silent, waiting. Evening in Mellieha. Holocaust sunset. Gargantuan meal at Da Rosi. Happy as a lark with a heart full of hope. A dishful of swordfish and a hat full of bluebells and daisies.

You are so glad you came. Sure you’ll never be the same.

Because of Malta on a mid-May morn!

Anita Kilbride-Jones

ST PAUL’S BAY