Rome is among my favourite cities on earth. It’s a city where the history isn’t just tangible, it thickens the air and even flavours the food you eat. One of my fondest memories of the eternal city was when I gave my poor mother and sister some respite from sprinting around from one landmark to the next. This poem is an ode to the Campo de’ Fiori, and the meal we devoured there as the daylight faded over the rooftops.
Campo De’ Fiori
An orange-grey hue descends upon
the labyrinthine streets as the sun falls,
bringing with it a biting chill. The cure?
A jacket if lonely, a cuddle if not.
And one would not be remiss to say
that invisible lamps blink from Navona’s obelisk
and in the ancient houses flanking the narrow paths
that have seen pestilence, Triumphs, and Fascists alike.
Murmurs and footsteps echo off the cobbles,
a gentle percussion lending its services to the
rhythm of conversation, the gentle clatter of
forks, the clinking of wine glasses.
Foccacia and Ragu glisten under the
gentle lanterns, stars winking in and out
of existence as you turn your knife.
Lift gently, place on tongue, a bomb explodes and your eyes water.
Cleaned plates lie like neglected moons,
the chairs lightly scratch the stone as they are pulled from tables.
The lovers walk away, arm in arm,
and the friends cast their dreams into the Tevere.
And inky velvet falls upon the Campo de’ Fiori
as the tables empty and the murmurs die
to a faint whisper, and the streets wait patiently
in the darkness to touch the next strangers’ hearts.
Thank you so much for reading this poem: this one has a special place in my heart. Nevertheless, please leave your comments below with your thoughts and opinions, and constructive criticism is always welcome.
The Galley with No Name 