Thursday, 19 January 2012

The Italian Child of Past

I smell gas and coffee
cold tapping feet on the marble floor 
the cold seeping into the bones - from the living quarters 
ah - the electric fire 
and once more cold sheets
and creaky beds 
howling dogs and motorbikes

The bakers are busy rolling bread shapes
we are sent to get a bag full
five o'clock in the morning
where have you surfaced from child?
and where are you going?
I am a child of foreign lands 

The well in the garden
imaginations running wild
bottomless, endless? 
and pathways in the garden
run along them
and you fall and hurt your knees
from one generation to an other

The Church
fear of the beckoning nuns 
the walk of shame - in front of the congregation
the slight breeze - forever - unsettles me
Mary's veil sways mysteriously
a dead body in the coffin – stirring?
arches, marble, frankincense - intoxicating….....
is Christ going to stand up? 
Is he going to walk down that aisle? 

The cemetery
tragic deaths and mourned pasts
baby tombs 
and murders - in Africa
little compartments
do they really contain dead people? 

The dried out valley
the forest up the mountain 
with the big rocks and stones
it harbours more...... 

The lone man living on the deserted farm
keeping cheese in the drawers 
and goats in the kitchen

The smell; unbearable, and captivating

I prati sono verdi e l'acqua e pura

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