Sicilia

To my grandfather, Luigi Puglisi, 1892 - 1927

He traced his life through fields of chipped stone
as he trod the shoulders of the volcano.
Sometimes, he glanced up at its white crown
concerned that his brow would be furrowed.
His people laboured in the fierce sun 
among the fields of lemon and pistachio.
The sacred dark was a balm for their sin
the pitiless heat and the cracked soil.
My grandfather. If I could I would go
back to his life scooped out from toil.
I would find refuge in scent and shadow.
I would tend olives and press them for oil.
I would tread the harsh fields of fire and snow
If I could, I would go back there now.

Picture show Mount Etna seen from Bronte