Italian poem No 10.

The Millstream

I am fishing in the millstream

in the brown and frothing current;
foam a-swirling, leaves a-twirling
on the mountain's rushing torrent.
Our poor Gwen fell off the culvert
in the dark and stormy night,
soaked her clothes
bruised her knees,
spilt her handbag,

grazed her elbows,
gave us all a nasty fright!
Now I'm fishing in the millstream
for her wallet, purse and keys,
the gold compact that her husband
bought her once from overseas.

Let me see where they have fallen,
whereabouts the wallet's gone…
Has it drifted in the current
somewhere underneath a stone?
Yes! It's here!
Her cheques and passport
and her photo, quite forlorn!
Lay them in the sun and dry them!
Luckily there's nothing torn.

Now I'm wading in the millstream
on this grey and stormy day
while the sullen water eddies
round the branches in its way.
I am searching for Gwen's purse
which holds, along with all her money,
driver's license,
ring of keys,
book of stamps,
and credit cards
the loss of which is not so funny.
So I'm in the stream once more,
wallowing in drizzling rain,

trying to find her things before
the river rises once again.

A neighbour comes in waders
with a fishnet on a pole.

"I think the purse might float a bit,
then sink into that hole."
And here it is!
The missing purse,
A lump of sodden leather!
Put it by the fire to dry.

Luckily it held together! 

Here I'm paddling in the millstream 

on this bright and blowy morning. 

How the water winks and sparkles! 

Over pebbles it goes gurgling. 

I am looking for Gwen's compact, 

with the powder for her face. 
It's round 

and gold, 

engraved, 

and loved, 

and not so easy to replace. 

The sun shines down. A thing like that 

should gleam and glow and shimmer. 

But what Gwen didn't tell me was - 

it's in a black felt cover. 

My foot is resting on a stone 

that’s flat and square and slimy. 

"I saw a compact once before  

that's just like Gwen's. Oh, Blimey! 

Here it is,  

her precious gift - 

I've stood upon it all the while! 

Eureka! I have found Gwen's gold!" 

How glad I am to see her smile! 

© Tamsyn Taylor 

Italian Poem No 9.

      

Molino Revisited 

"Here's the place!" I say.
We stop the car 
and from the grassy verge

look just below us in the valley
where an aged limestone building squats,
an old beret of terracotta tiles
pulled on its head.
It has green shutters
at the upper window where,
so many years ago, I slept.
The millstream curves around
and though the wheel
is long since gone
some nights
you wake to hear
a rhythmic thundering
and a churning sound
as though this building has a heart.
The millstream ripples by
and by that stream
tall poplars grow.
They are the spreading sort
and in the spring
the air is full of golden down
and by the stream
a swing is moving gently to and fro.
One can sit dreaming
in the dappled light
and hear the rippling tune of water
gliding over stones.
And through the open shutters
in the night
it plays continuo
while the nightingale
sings its sonata sweet
and softly to the darkness.

In the morning bright

the cuckoo calls
with joyful, childish repetition
of his two-note song
and round the ancient archway
to the kitchen door
wisteria climbs,
and in those blooms
are bumblebees
so large
that they could carry you away
if they had need to,
but they're busy.
In my mind I see
Louise
in dress of faded crimson
wading in meadow grass
and golden haze,
picking a sheaf of poppies
and some daisies
and some heads of wheat.
They're for the big blue jug
without a handle
on the breakfast table,
with the crusty loaf
and soft white cheese
and steaming milk
and fresh ground coffee.
How I love this place!
We turn away
and start the engine
for today
we must press on to Venice.

© Tamsyn Taylor,