What remains in the mind
is the spirit of the place,
like the memory of a face.
Made of a myriad
of rustlings, with rhymes,
like in the woodpigeons’ cooing.
How persistent they were
in their up-and-down calls
that seemed to say: “ What
are you looking for ?
It’s this the world.”
And the swollen, advancing
clouds like countenances,
the landscape’s enthusiastic
showing off.
Low and vast pervading sky
and land rising high
in neat outlines.
And the wind, the breath
of persistence,
that made the spiralling seeds
spill on the carpet by the bed
as if something of the living
land’s map
had to overlap.
The countryside a patchwork,
“rolling”, they call it
and what I felt was a hand
following a tune
and laying the land
as if breathing, from its palm.
The land then, but not her,
now she was not there,
she was the absence spacing in me
in the widespread green
like a sky in the wind,
while trees and leaves seemed
to hint at the under-thread
of all that was passing,
yes, nevertheless,
the woodpigeons’ coos like knitting,
in this longing, strewing
riddle of life.
2 comments:
Quite a few telling images in this. The first two lines were a good start, and then the next four made of them a complex and intriguing image. The rest of the poem lived up to its beginning.
Wonderful work, Davide. The next time I hear the wood pigeons I'll listen to hear what they're saying to me - you brought their personality to life.
Pedantic point - "myriad" should not have "of" after it (lines 4/5).
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