ISSN 1758-6488
|
Selections from The Reasoner Poetry |
print view |
46
And then you saw Italy!
Three cypresses and an umbrella pine;
the piazza a seashore where the boy David reclines flat,
his head thrown back in a rock-pool;
and the Madonna, in a private moment,
her blue gown thrown across her hips,
tends to her hair, and a henna-ed girl,
wound in pearls and jewelled flowers,
floats on the waves from Africa.
And Man, who up in those flame-struck forests north
could not be the measure of Nature
but only part of its tumultuousness,
could be this boy in blue-jeans,
shirtless, jacket open,
who has just crossed the unseen sound
and now, breaking the perspective,
berths his boat beside the colonnade.
You give me faith, my friend, you give me faith.
