It was no use. Sicily, 2011.

The stifling claw of the southern Italian heat

And ash-laden mood

weighted my expectant heart,

with every Sicilian breath.

Sweet citrus scents

and soft oleander fragrance

cloyed my thoughts,

Wafting my wispy hopes

and hazy Italian dreams.

The Calabrian border taunted

with its distant closeness.

Swallows goaded.

Town piazzas teased.

Ancient sculptures jeered

with antique jibes and gazes.

The Noto cherubs  and grotesques

Smirked, with baroque smugness.

Winking, with knowing,

telling eyes and smiles.

And whilst the fresh Ortygia market soothed.

Whilst the Tyrhenian coastline calmed.

Whilst the silken bitterness

of stark espresso mornings

lulled my brooding thoughts,

It was no use.

In vain, Etna offered,

with her lower–sloped arms,

a gift of groves and jays.

But the wild-flowered garland

that crowned and softened her forlorn heights

Could not bridge the solitary distance

from her scattered  Aeolian family.

And nor from mine.    
                            

                                                                        

Whilst I searched the mountains,

ravaged the seas,

and plundered the tables;

Savouring the tangy taste and memory

of sweet lemon-drizzled gambaretti crudi.

I still fringed the persuasive landscape

and life, with an unforgiving heart.

Ignoring the summons of bells

From goats and churches.

I  bowed and grazie-d

With a heartless tourist will.                     

I knew with every ounce of denial

That this was Italy,

to the bone and quick.

But still I cast away, betrayed,

with sacrilegious purpose,

something that had once been held so sacred:

That long awaited, aged, cherished dream.