Saturday, February 9, 2013
Le Ripe Dreaming
Oh, to be in Tuscany
Now that spring is almost there,
Striding up the forest track,
Breathing sweet Chianti air.
For there is that hill to climb
Through dappled woods, home to boar,
Fallow deer, nightingales; while
Overhead, brown buzzards soar.
From its summit, opposite,
One spies beige towns perched on high
Above lingered lines of vines
And tree-shrouded homes nearby.
Below, unseen slopes descend
To an ancient Roman road,
A war-time patriots’ cave,
A dancing stream, slight-shadowed,
And local stone farm buildings,
With haughty cypress guardians:
All encompassed by Le Ripe,
A name as old as Ossian’s.