Tuscany
Posted: Wed Aug 17, 2005 3:04 pm
I wrote this when I was out there and, like the cheap local plonk you love when abroad, I think this has gone a little stale on the way back home.
Tuscany
In every frescoed hall
The dying moments
Of an unknown saint,
Canonized in oil on stone.
In the fields, grapes grow fat on the vine.
Warm terracotta nestles on terraces;
In a sighing chair an old, old woman
Marks off the seasons with her rosary.
In Siena, vias lead like veins
To the Campo, beating in summer
To the sound of hooves,
The pulse of steaming flesh.
Too soon the autumn
Dampens the cobbles.
In the cool darknesses of the Duomo
Guided tourists seek an ancient god,
As if he hid amongst the pillars.
Still the scent of incense lingers
Though the chalices are tarnished,
Denuded by the cameras' flash
As by the eroding grasp of adoring fingers.
Pavements paced for slow centuries
Now suffer a million curious feet.
In countless coffee shops
Life persists amongst the ruins of the glorious dead.
And still the woman counting.
Tuscany
In every frescoed hall
The dying moments
Of an unknown saint,
Canonized in oil on stone.
In the fields, grapes grow fat on the vine.
Warm terracotta nestles on terraces;
In a sighing chair an old, old woman
Marks off the seasons with her rosary.
In Siena, vias lead like veins
To the Campo, beating in summer
To the sound of hooves,
The pulse of steaming flesh.
Too soon the autumn
Dampens the cobbles.
In the cool darknesses of the Duomo
Guided tourists seek an ancient god,
As if he hid amongst the pillars.
Still the scent of incense lingers
Though the chalices are tarnished,
Denuded by the cameras' flash
As by the eroding grasp of adoring fingers.
Pavements paced for slow centuries
Now suffer a million curious feet.
In countless coffee shops
Life persists amongst the ruins of the glorious dead.
And still the woman counting.