Wednesday Sonnet: To Italy

There is a vine that binds us, made of rose
And olive leaves, and figs and spikes of pine;
It is entwined with sunlight, grain and wine,
The song that is our language lets it close
Around our wrists and waists, and we are led
As one into the ribcage of the self.
A monumental doorway, clean like health,
Bears words we heard when Polyphemus said:
Who. Are. You. – I don’t speak, air goes amiss.
Italia, sacred no-one, earth and mother,
This question (and its cryptologic bliss)
Was only made by Time to break or smother
The heart in me, the flag in you – and this
Is why we’re bound. We answer for each other.