Under vaulted ceilings, history on display in brushstrokes;
Outside, crosses skim the heavens, light reflects around,
Insignificance is apparent.
Through labyrinthine streets, feet trip on cobbles, to find a bed of water,
couples rocked as if sleeping babes.
“There’s so much to see and feel!” There, the lions roared,
here we drink the blood of Christ.
“Hold your hands up. Look as if you’re propping it up”
Everything the eye spies is a delight.
A patter of voices trip each other, flowing, lilting,
struck dumb, in awe of lyrical beauty.
Earthy scents drift, cut with acidity and steeped in heritage,
a Nonna works her hands, slick with oil.
Khaki green globes spill from earthen bowls,
among a constellation of crumbs,
blonde ribbons coated in orange, red; littered with flecks of fragrance.
Laughter leaks from shuttered panes, the sound of breaking bread,
“prendere un po ‘di più”.
Antiquity in grains of dirt, exquisite delicacy from stone,
“in the marble until he set it free”.
Dusk approaches, evening a kaleidoscopic palette,
discarded at days end by Correggio,
picked up at dawn, Canaletto flourishes,
unleashing azure and sapphire skies.