Evening rinses sienna walls
as ochre liqueur slips down the throat
of a cerulean sky.

Tuscan day peels away,
cool autumn air blushing
ripe opalescent domes.

Green marble memories
drift from the square,
laced with incense and incantations.

she tears a corner
from each creamy vellum page,

lingering over the tattered scraps,
before tucking them between the stones
of the worn umber streets.



Filed under Poetry

13 responses to “Leaving

  1. nice…love the visuals…the sky is drinking again i see…smiles…and the tucking of the pages…nice hearken back maybe to the tucking of prayers in the wall…or maybe just to leave messages for another who travels a similar path…

    great to see you!

  2. Thanks Brian. I’ve just returned from Florence. My second visit and both times I felt as though I was leaving a little piece of me behind when I left.

    Good to see you too my friend, left a little comment on your blog probably around the same time you were leaving one on mine 🙂

  3. I long to see this place of sienna walls, opalescent domes, and worn umber streets. This is just lovely.

  4. i DREAM of going to Italy! Thanks for sharing these lovely images with me. I adore this!!!!


  5. Fantastic. Every word. Superb.

    That first stanza drizzled onto my tongue like hot caramel sauce.

  6. Truly captured the essence of the picture and being there, wonderful verse.

  7. Sunset in all its longing… wonderful poetry to capture those moments.. and just great to hear the Welsh lilt vocalising it….

  8. Sweet, beautiful Florence…one of many places on your side of the pond I would love to see one day. Perhaps the fates will conspire to such a kindness, no? Time, perhaps will tell…

    The scene you paint, though, is a lovely one, ensnaring the senses and only making the heart long for such sights all the more. I’m envious, my friend! Hope it was a great trip – from the sounds of your comment above, though, it certainly seems like it was!

  9. When we leave a place like Florence, something stays with us forever, doesn’t it, a Byzantium of the imagination. It becomes a trope of something, an intoxicating night of love, a magisterial sunset, the hue of ancientness mixed in the lengthening shadows. Like a bookmark, huh. Finely wrought as always, carved to a curlicue. – Brendan

  10. Wonderful rendition of a place in time. The feeling stays throughout, with no ups and downs. I love the understatement in the words, a quality emphasized by your vocal tones. The voice-over added great value to the experience of reading it. Very fine poem.

  11. I love this, beautiful visuals.

  12. Marty

    Yeah, this is a winner, best I can tell.

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