The Daily Post prompt is: tourist
I used this painting very recently, but it’s the kind of image that preys on my mind.
In that village on the hill,
Where every house has shutters green,
And yellow ochre plasters walls,
And pines cast shade, a midday screen,
The people move with gestures same
As yours and mine, they eat, complain,
They lean on windowsills and plan,
They long for places we disdain.
Old men beneath the church wall sit,
Or by the fountain’s shady side.
Women call their children home,
Good smells waft through windows wide.
We walk in wonder cobbled streets
And wish that this could all be ours,
We’d make such beauty food and drink
And never pine for fog or showers.
The girl stops peeling beans to watch
The tourists passing in the street,
Her eyes so wistful full of dreams
Of the people she will never meet.
The peace to her is boredom pure,
The future planned to her last breath,
No beauty in old stones she sees,
Only slow and lingering death.