Some servant of the Medici
ran down this narrow street
into this same stony silence:
our sandals slap the cobbles,
echo off these ochre walls as
easy rhythms of another time.
In shade, these cool stones
still keep the morning’s touch;
in sun, they blaze with searing
orange lust, driving lovers inside,
others into sweet holy shade
inside tall echoing frescoed walls.
A young woman walks ahead
hair bobbing, small purse swinging
beside her hip, muscles carrying her
easily along the narrow marble walk,
silent, a meditation available anywhere,
but here, a sweet musical song
that haunts my Canadian dreams.