Matera

Another entry in Journeys.

You carried the faint scent of sweet rose and vanilla
the night we wandered the canyon of Matera.
Navigating the aged cobblestone streets of The Sassi,
half drunk on a bottle of Moscato wine,
we grew hungry
and stumbled into our hole in the wall,
La Tapa.

Greeted by the genial owner Luca,
We sat in the comforting curvature of
stained mahogany sedias on that autumn evening,
whimsically trading white wine sips
and bits of truffled topped pizza,
listening to the crackles of the wood burning oven,
watching our candle's wick grow weary and cold.

Between scoops of smooth lemon gelato
and fervish glances,
we talked of the Tuscan countryside, of the Venice Canals,
celebrating past and present with dancing, with more wine,
but avoiding talk of the future,
of your year long departure,
sinking such thoughts in bottomless bottles of Moscato.

A year has passed,
and the familiar stained sedias remain unchanged,
but I now sit alone.
Luca pours a crisp glass of matured house white,
and I glance to the quiet cobblestone streets,
and I talk to him about my present,
about our past.
He will continue to pour until the morning light
crests across a distant horizon,
and cathedral bells break my romantic naivety.

Reviews

This is a beautiful write and memory of Italy, and Toscany, and a romance.
I felt at home as I've lived there for a several periodes in my life.
Truely mesmerizing, but with an aware ending.

E.L.