Mountains, unfolded each morning
by light from a resurgent sun,
spawn vultures, shaping corkscrews with the air;
their ancient purpose held by patient trees.
Compelled to stillness, cattle stand
apart, dropping dull notes from hidden bells,
and an old woman sits to watch
– a scene unchanged since Hannibal.
Like her I yearn for younger, warmer flesh –
more lively days and nights, with laughter,
wine and song – fading gently at the end,
perhaps, to the same slow rhythms of this land,
and thence to sleep.
This is a wonderful, largely unspoiled and timeless land.