Return to Pisa

The canvas spans a screen before it folds

and Tuscany is shrunk to yellow icon:

olives spotted low in dipping lines

and cyprus captured in a single stroke,

gulls looping the marina at Viarěggio

and Elba smudged across the water from Volterra;

flooding streets carved from the river,

gouging rustication deep across the walls,

high ribless vaults and sculpted alms,

each corner crushing back the spine

to trace the cornice under every shutter

and catch the swallows diving from the gutters.


And nothing must be painted on the day,

Every thought can sketch tomorrow or the next;

breakfast slow with coffee never-ending

and headlines discarded to the table;

routine is none, time is unwound,

far beyond the reach of meeting dates;

sun and sea breathe upon the skin,

every part to be touched and uncovered;

to walk between the photos of the hills

and strike a pose amid the droning flies.

Click from scene and turn to city road,

plastic bag and screwed-up biscuit wraps

and navigate from pixelated pines,

now hidden in a wood of numbered files.