Eurotrip p.3

Posted on Monday, June 04, 2012, under


We did not go to the hills. The hills came to us.
                                Anon., XI c.

From St Benedict’s provenance
up the hairpin roads
dotted with landslide rock
and cow pies of gentle Chianina
idling inside a sharp U-turn,
then a descent as the foot taps
the brake like Morse code
onto the flat Piano Grande
leaving a trail of oil dust,
observed from the nonporous
backdrop by sheep, birds
of prey and haystacks alike,
the way a stagecoach
might have been watched over
by the Apache extras.

By the moonless window
old Benedict had a vision
of God’s inconceivable universe.
For all we know he never
set foot in Castelluccio.
Not many have. Having made
it this far, you’d take a long look
at yourself as the meltwater
rushes down the Apennines,
as the fog ascends – the karst
sinkholes being blocked –
smothering the village.
Away from the world’s
prying eyes, the stage
set for iniquity.

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