Something stimulating about picking, your own,
Vegetables and fruits, fresh from the garden.
Red and green, amber when ripe, juicy grapes,
Bursting brown figs, sans bugs and unpecked,
So sweet, you devour both interior and rind,
Lettuce and carrots, contingent on the season.
First thing in the morn, prior to the commute,
Through constricted streets of Roman towns,
To emerge onto iconic tree-lined avenues.
Narrow, elegantly long and fabulously straight,
Into the distance, plane tree evenly spaced.
The high and dense canopies maintain cover,
Through thick green leaves, all summer long,
Only shards of light penetrating, intermittently!
With surroundings of incredibly flat meadows,
Of widespread vineyards and peach orchards.
A scenery redolent of lavender and wild flower,
And symbol of a lackadaisical medieval era.
Favourite old haunts, of innocent adolescence,
Alas, my heart stirs into nostalgia, evermore.
If only I had the choice, time and opportunity?
I would persevere and drive for days on end!
Yet, work intervenes and absorbs dawn-to-dark,
I’m lucky today to return home early, and savor,
The garden fragrance, the eve rapidly flying by,
Then had dinner with a generous glass of rosé,
Way deep into the star-studded night.
