It is morning, Rome.
Rising from bed in the damp 18th century room,
go out into sunlit streets. The peculiar glow
of stone, brick, and sun surround you
even on rainy winter mornings. Coffee
and bread at an ex-pat café,
newspapers, idle talk,
warm the chilled dislocated soul.
But now it is June,
the late glorious feast
of Sts. Peter and Paul.
The city glows scarlet and golden,
flowers on every corner and altar,
incense and candle-wick burning,
and the dank little church
across the piazza
rises above its sunken state
far below the contemporary curb.
The house of the saints is awash with light
knowing Peter stepped once across the threshold,
tired and dazzled with sun in his eyes.
And was welcomed
here, San Lorenzo in Lucina,
here is the feast of old friends.
It is morning, Rome.
Kathleen Griffin
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/conversation-4/
