1922

'foretelling perhaps ...'

Autumn augured this portentous winter --

north of the Po the murmur of black-sleeved leaves

growing bolder with each day’s dawn …

increasingly dismissive of the red vests,

old man listlessly bowling out the waning light …

Rosselli and his motely band of pince-nez

chittering over a midday risotto.

‘No more librettists, hothouse poets …

thinkers tinkering about a boiled egg!’

Rome -- so long cocooned, fattened by indulgences --

‘mindless of your hale and hardened Ceasars,

the glory of an unflinching triple line …’

restored to future grandeur, glittering

in the benefic torchlight of the shadow-shakers

sweeping antiquity up the Citorio -- 

sadly, underdressed for the fall of winter.   

Ken e Bujold