Going to Italy

The first time I saw Italy

We’d driven in our English car, debarking from

The ferry in Roscov, French northern port, and

Down through Massif Central, a chateau or two

Along the way,

Blankets of blue lavender and yellow rapeseed stretching far beyond imagine.

We’d picnicked on the sides of curving dusty roads,

Never sure where we were going; not much caring, either.

Red round tomatoes,

Just-picked peaches, still dew-splashed, and warm.

Camembert.

And pain au chocolat from

Some small patisserie. 

Driving, driving, villages and fields became Dordogne

And then Provence.

We camped in meadows, dined one long twilight at Auberge-I-can’t-remember.

In the garden of the plastered, timbered inn

There was a swing set for the children, so we lingered as

They climbed and braved at acrobatics,

Sipping aperitif, espresso, then more drink until we

Relinquished days and miles and 

All gave in to sleep.

Next day, our friends turned back, their holiday

Concluded; re-crossed the Channel; returned to moor,

And we drove on, into the tunnels, holding breath

One mile or ten in darkness and ten miles or one 

In brilliant day

Flashing, flickering through Alps—snow-topped—just winking glances; 

Climbing without knowing

Up to French lakes—and Annecy—with crimson potted blossoms

On the rough stone steps of town,

And back into the tunnels, then, until the last one opened into

Sensuous mist, a bit of rain, quixotic flirt of wind

At highest borders. Ahh, extravagance! Cyprus, Russian olives, fragrances,

The beckon of our family: we’re rushing now to see them.

Maggiore, Como, and Berbenno.

Discovering and entering the lush close grey-green palate

Burst from Alpine detours, 

We come home to Italy.

1995
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