Blonde light washes the Arno as tender
September night invites the city to bathe
in the balm of the West Wind.
The pink, white and green marble of the Campanile,
visible through your tiny open window,
sits creamily amongst the throng of umber tones.
You chill a young Vernaccia as we talk of
art and architecture; of da Vinci, porcelain
doorknobs and the breathtaking Basilica.
Later, as we cross the Ponte delle Grazie,
in the back of a battered Fiat, the tassita
quietly humming ‘Un bel di vedremo’
and the rain-slicked streets of the sleeping city
sliding beneath us, you gather up
my breath with your own.