I often dream of returning to Italy where I lived and worked as a teacher during 1981-83. One of my most persistent dreams is that in which I return to a fascinating area -formerly an ancient lake now drained to be replaced by a large group of vegetable gardens. It's called *La Conca del Fucino*.
The following poem is dedicated to the citizens of Avezzano, the peasant farmers of Fucino and the personnel of Italy's giant satellite communication station, Telespazio.

Last night,
a delicate, indelible dream
filled with images: an ancient lake
surrounded by futile endeavours to drain it:
the magnification of an emperor’s vain vision.

The images move through centuries
gradually changing the face of fascinating Fucino and its people,
guided in part by a latter-day prince
who avers he will drain the lake of Fucino
or it will drain him.

Cavalcades of dancing decades
persistent, permutable
take me through Fucino again
:the one I learnt to love for a precious past;
elegant beauty and ambience;
power to engrave unforgettable images
on eager tablets of memory.

See those threads of track
weaving patterns of farms
intersected by glistening canals that fan to the Appenines
like tableaus on a tapestry.

On this fabled ground
(lake now drained)
toil-stained men in ruffled garb
and plump, aproned figurines in bending head-scarves
work the soil of fabulous Fucino
where Claudius, to signal love for veiled,unbending Aggripina,
once staged naval battles.

Hear the silver sounds
of trout splashing
in irrigation canals,
the Appenines their guardians.

And now a distant sighting:
ascension after ascension of great white antennae
through light veils
of early morning mist.

How they thrust upwards
like crops of giant ears
waiting for whispered tidings
from the prying prodigies
circling,ever circling above.

The people of the soil
merely pay attention to their own affairs;
broadcast seeds, receive crops
never seeming to heed the impassive giant
that shares their ancient soil.

While all across the other parts of microscopic Earth
its tenants scamper like ants
from season to fleeting season,
but cannot,cannot escape
the eyes and ears of Fucino.

A waking a trembling, a longing
to take in its magic again;
heart-aches yearn yet resonate in rhythm
with spirit-rocking joy
for wishes fulfilled
through liberating portals of dreaming.