By hilary west
I saw her last in a dream of Taormino,
Cups of coffee by the shore,
Nude sunbathing on the sands,
Walks under the pine trees.
A brush of the lips in the hot sun,
Her hair caught in the lightest of breezes:
Golden strands like threads of gold in moonlight.
She'd undressed for the beach, casually, desirably,
Her bikini scant and tight,
Pink and white polka dots.
Stood elegantly by a corkscrew tree,
Its branches gnarled and black,
She was tall and statue-like
A Britomartis, a Dianna
Holding blue geraniums.
She'd talk about foreign wars,
Only ever making peace, making love.
Her bright skin olive and waxy like magnolias.
We'd walk for miles, the sun on our backs,
Silent in happiness, never wanting to return to everyday.
And now I dream to return to Taormino,
Its ancient ruins as old as me now,
But maybe I should let it go.
I thumb through the brochures,
Sip my lemon tea,
And remember Rosa, Rosa by the sea at Taormino.