I wanted to write a cadralor for the dverse prompt. I don’t think this is one really, and it needs more work, but it’s late. I’ll look at it again another time.
Taste of past places
We never ate out when I was growing up.
No money for that kind of thing
and where would we have gone?
Only with you, always with you, to sit watching you,
the sensual joy of watching enjoyment, indulgence,
and on your skin, the candlelight.
Hilltop town encircled by vineyards,
Giotto colours, background of ochre and eggshell blue sky.
I never even imagined living there.
Too close to perfection, even longing
for a green-shuttered house of orange stone
would have been a sin.
Shrieking brakes and voices raised,
anger dying down as easily as it flared.
Laughter and the roar of a scooter.
The gutters were full of cigarette packets, Nazionali,
And the streets always smelled of urine,
and pizza bianca from the darkly enticing trattorie.
So many times we slipped in among the students
and workers, the noisy, crowded places
where food was cheap, and there was no menu.
Always spaghetti with tomatoe sauce. Basil leaves.
We were i ragazzi francesi
not knowing enough Italian to put them straight.
Nights I smell things. The migraines do that.
Perfume sometimes or odd, dead things.
But I never smell pines and Nazionali,
sun cream with sand in it, pizza bianca,
Frascati and red Colli di Trasimeno.
I never smell the past that was where we began.