I am ancient Etruria where the sunflowers still stand 

Our little wooden house beneath the winding paths, the cypress and umbrella pines

On the old wooden chair outside I sit and read the poems of a venus year 

The classic black rye and Swiss, and fruit from the village markets, one apple, one pear 

I hear the wooden stereo blaring fado, I can hear their Portuguese yearnings for their sea-lovers 

All day we paint with bristle brush, the folk figures facing proud before us, we rave in colour now and passion combines it

Lunch comes of homemade sausages, ratatouille and baked focaccia dipped in oil and crest with grapes. 

 These wooded hills and my cream corseted dress running down them, little Celtic pouch, with glass pens from Venice and this story phase 

Reading one another the last verse of Italian folktales L'uomo che usciva solo di notte and the peasants astrologer

Talk till midnight of old lives, that we have been here more than a thousand times, you the elegant host of the universe, talk of dream rituals and of sea myths 

What life has been meted out for us in spite of all our singing with the birds and carrying the hems of our skirt beyond what the sea can touch.