This beautiful hill-top town in Tuscany is responsible for much of the magic that has inspired my writing – both this poem and The Twins of Orion (see under Writing: Children on this site). I also mention the incredible 442 – their bravery in Italy in 1944 recognised by more purple hearts than any other American regiment. Ever.
—–
There’s a picture on my wall; a post-card
Framed.
Of a narrow street
Where buildings rise and reach to kiss;
close but never close enough,
beneath a cloudless sky.
*
The colour picture focus falls, bright
on figures ambling by,
dreamlike browsing paintings hung on shaded wall.
They , unhurried
waft through colonade of potted flowers;
red.
*
Shadows cling
where cotta roofs
brow-heavy
darken
cream facades.
And iron clad
mouths of glass gape wide
in uneven scatter across uneven stone.
As ancient
windows, mottled black,
look out.
Dare we look in?
*
History sits at peace
on pavement; here
resting in the morning sun.
And watches the feet of a gentler time,
a happy time,
a time of trinket laden memories.
The lives of man
here settled.
Calm.
*
Calmly strolling through a
fortress.
Do they notice?
The strong, resilience of this
Mediaeval town
atop a Tuscan hill.
It
stands proud behind
Sangallo’s walls.
Impregnable.
Defiant.
Listen. Hear it’s quiet roar.
At its peak
the Rocca ramparts
rise,
its fortress fingers
thrusting
crenelations into Italian skies.
*
It stands
it stood
it witnessed
Seige and fight and battle.
Ancient sentinel of the Chianti league
guardian of land, law and power.
And site of purple heart citations
as on a sunny July day in 1944
it heard
the distant rumble of approaching guns
it felt
the artillery of war
it bled
the blood of buildings smashed,
of lives destroyed
and evil purged and fled,
as ‘Going for broke’
the 442nd swept through Italy
in a wave of bloodied allied victory.
*
Now
pastel painted feet
in shoes
stand and shuffle,
where once dirty soles
flitted
across polished stone
polishing feet
polishing away history.
*
I shut my eyes
and breathe
and dream until I
smell the dust-dry air,
feel the warming sun,
open my ears
and children shout.
I hear their feet skid and run
and the thud of their ball
on that polished stone.
