Castelluccio
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.
