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