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