Etruscan Places
1. Volterra - Twilght
Sunset fades; the golden citadel
now darkens. Dusty blue, the sky awaits
its first few stars. He places a lace shawl
about her shoulders, then anticipates
just how the evening might unfold - beauty
and cruelty finely balanced. ‘You seem distant’.
She smiles, blows him a kiss, he feels from duty
or maybe misplaced pity. Still, persistent,
he talks at length of their museum visit,
then reads aloud from ‘Etruscan Places’.
His voice trails off, as if to say – 'What is it?'
Remembering the death masks’ vivid faces,
trinkets stolen from a king’s sarcophagus,
she says,’ the place reminded me of us.
2. Peach Melba
The Texas matriarch three tables down,
her chosen subject – Michelangelo
explains that David’s vaguely bilious frown,
big head, small dick, if viewed from down below
‘looks perfectly proportional’ Installed
discreetly in their corner, stifling laughter,
the couple listen in. ‘Do you recall’,
the woman asks, ‘the line that comes straight after
" in the room the women come and go ?"’
He smirks, then ordering dessert (Peach Melba),
leans back; it's good, he feels, she’s in the know.
‘Tomorrow,’ she suggests, ‘lets visit Elba’.
He nods, observing with suppressed alarm
the serpent bracelet clasped to her white arm.
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3. The City of The Dead - His Sonnet
Then after dark they take the stony track
zig-zagging through an ancient olive grove
to reach the citadel, its ramparts black
against the gauze-gray sky. From high above
the shrunken moon rains down its tarnished light
upon the silent town. Though neither dare
disturb its brittle quietness, tonight,
as shadows drift like moths across the bare
chalk hills, they sense the silence’s hushed scream.
The breeze is warm; the moonlight, cold as frost
illuminates a plundered tomb, a dream
of plenty, an ancient innocence lost.
They walk apart, she tries to stride ahead
enamoured with the city of the dead.
4. A postcard for mother
For Mother, the Etruscan figurine?’
Bea, prone in Savasana hints - 'Too phallic,
Mom might prefer the tacky vineyard scene.'
'Is everything you say some smartaleck
cliche?.' 'Bullshit! Just tell her you’re OK,'
she grins, ‘its not the Pulitzer committee.’
He writes, ‘arrived Volterra, noon Sunday,
now 1.00 am. Too hot for sleep, tho. B.
can work, I cannot find the words, surprise,
surprise.’ Unsure quite how he should sign-off:
not ‘love’ - perpetuating well versed lies;
‘Your loving son’ – too public schoolboy toff.
He settles for a stark initial Q
but vacillates between one ‘x’ or two
5. Moon shot
Her element: crouched down behind a tripod,
Bea points the telephoto at the moon;
‘We’ll need a timed exposure here’, It’s odd
the casual way she seeks to importune
whoever is on hand to serve her process.
He thinks - what was it the New Yorker said ?
“Eschewing mere depiction, Beatrice
demurs from taking photographs, instead
performs photography, and apprehends
the world spectating her.” ‘Focus!
for fuck's sake.' The moon obliges. He pretends
that Artemis, alone on Mount Olympus,
puts down her bow exclusively to shine
into the empty lens - a light divine.
6. Maremma Dusk - Her Landscape
Too hot for sleep. observe Bea work; lips pursed,
brow furrowed, she sits cross-legged upon the bed
and stares into her Powerbook, immersed.
Maremma Dusk , umbrella pines, the Med
suffused in yellow light; black cattle graze
amid the salt marshes. She clicks invert;
the lime green grass, the gold, rococo haze
morph instantly to mauve; the earth reverts
to pre-diluvian blue. She pastes a row
of sunflowers from Yahoo, reversing hue
flamboyant petals pale to indigo.
'It's finished, now let's sleep.' He thinks, 'are you
a charlatan, my cool flirtatious thief;
and I your fool, naive beyond belief?
7. Tragedy
He wakes her with a gentle kiss. 'It's late,
the Traghetti leave at noon'. She stumbles
towards the shower. Beatrice looks so great
half-naked in his torn T shirt he mumbles
some obscenity.
‘Tragedy ,’
she squeaks
in Barry Gibb falsetto,
‘the feelings
gone and you can't go on;’
the pop song speaks
their sorrow. Driving southwards, tyres squealing,
Bea flings the Alfa through each hairpin bend.
They squabble. 'Watch that Vespa !' 'Are we lost?'
'Well read the bloody map.' It's not the end
he'd drafted - bittersweet, yet still star-crossed.
Livorno docks - they part. He drives to Rome,
re-writes
His Sonnet
as he flies back home.