Near the shores of warm lapping waves
The wind flows through the cypress trees
And from beneath the pine needle covered ground
Warm earth is collected to be kiln-baked,
And geometrically cut.
In late summer, the gentle hills have
Straw combed harvest ready fields.
A landscape like warm air filled linen.
Inside the little settlements of lime stoned walls,
They tinker away
At terracotta tiles.
Tiles for a lobby. Tiles for a butcher’s. Tiles for the bathroom.
Eight pointed stars. Dill flowers and ruccola leaves.
Full pine glazed green.
Cucumber flesh green clashing soot smear grey.
Burnt orange borders and all
Pushed into the wobbly walls and floors of the casco antiguo.
Tiles in the lobby brightened by the clear sun light –
With a stark angled clear-lined shadow
Of doorways and wrought iron overhead.
But only for an hour till the sun’s light moves
Like a sundial, from the narrow streets
To the terracotta tiles on the balconies, terraces and roofs.