Under the mountains’ battlements, the pinnacles, <br />The weathered crags worn to bishops’ mitres by the scouring winds, <br />Past walls red-garlanded or emerald, <br />Studded with sapphire points of Morning Glory, <br />Praiano waits between three tunnels, <br />Strung like a necklace along the sea’s shore <br />And climbing on narrow steps that twist and wind <br />Up from the mountain’s foot to holy grounds. <br /> <br />Below, towers, battered by winter, smiling in the sun, <br />Give shelter to the boats that come and go, <br />Rocked by white-tipped waves or lulled in placid calm, <br />For work, for pleasure, all in care of saints <br />Whose churches guard the coast: St Luca from above <br />And chiesa San Gennaro almost at the sea. <br /> <br />And on a summer evening, <br />Below the road where buses edge and blare, <br />The piazza is a magic place, striped by light, <br />Crossed by long shadows, <br />Where all the children play their happy games, <br />Under their patron saint’s approving gaze.<br /><br />Janice Windle<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/italian-collection-praiano/
