They wheedled fire
from green trees;
smoke emerged
reluctantly,
child-like as on
an unwanted errand.

It cuddled slowly
round the edge of
a long valley where
spritely young trees
were being nurtured
by an Italian Spring;
where gleaming moss clothed
ancient, pitted rocks
as snow melted slowly.

We shared the wide-awake sky
with hills, unaltered from times
when pagan Marsi claimed the soil,
made their celebration
with rites of dedication
and centuries of toil.

Time flew;
from the barbecue
we made a bee-line
in a very fast car
for a bar
where they sold
coffee, tea, wine,
beer (icy cold),
a three-decker sandwich
and, for the crowd,
played very loud
songs in a foreign language.

(c)2002 Patrick Talty