A Poem for Thursday

We had a week in Florence in a mad guest house, where we had to make our own breakfast and sometimes the owner's as well. The lights were off in the evening as we think she didn't pay her bills. But the madness of it all left us with this daft romantic feeling for Florence. And a love for the narrow streets where we got lost.

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 Florence

On the fourth day

A star shone in the midnight sky

above the olive tree.

Red wine and pasta memories,

and I wept.

On the fourth day

We walked the via Proconsole.

An Italian Glaswegian

Kissed my hand

and called me precious,

and I wept

On the fourth day

We lay on crisp white sheets

In an Italian afternoon.

Lovers as always

Whispering memories

and I wept.

On the fourth day

We were lost in a maze

Of dark streets and broken containers.

And love found us

In a room with thread

and compassion

To sew us together.

And I wept.

On the fourth day

Giotto and Duccio painted

With pink and orange

purple and blue.

Covering over eight years

and healing memories.

And I wept.