Old Country


I am writing from Assisi.

The colours of the landscape

murmur a softness, a honey-scent

unfamiliar to my evergreen eyes.


Buildings rise from sturdy haunches,

reach towards a smoke-washed sky.

The absoluteness of every vertical: god-like.

The land is strong to hold the weight of this architecture.


A thousand years.

In Assisi, the baker’s wife does not paint her house purple.


Basilica di San Francesco