Journey Through Memory

She sat alone 

in the front seat of the car

as it moved swiftly 

through the hills,

oblivious to the chatter around her

which she could barely hear.

It was night.

The moon was playing

hide and seek with the clouds. 

Turner and his moonscapes

came to mind.

Tall ghostly grasses

heavy with seed pods,

bent over the road. 

Momentarily illuminated,

they waved in the wake

of the passing car.

The words floating in the air

around her

changed to memories,

a journey through memories.

How often had she wound her way

along these roads

and even now 

she knew what lay ahead

under their cloak of darkness.

Here in these woods

she had once come upon

a group of hunters, 

with more dogs than men,

preparing for a boar hunt,

and thought of medieval 

manuscript illuminations.

Duc de Berry.

Further on where the forest

thinned out

a flight of stairs led to a castle

and a tower.

Castello della Sala.

Antinori, famed for their wine, 

a family for whom she

had once translated a book.

This was where 

she and her companion

had met a woman who said she was ninety

and that if you lived here you were bound

to reach that age. 

The road climbed up

past a long low structure on the left,

 its windows boarded up, 

where more families than one 

had lived, their white oxen 

stabled on the floor below.

Now empty, the farmhouse

had been bought by a Dutchman

she was told.

She wondered why he had in turn

abandoned it.

Curve after curve, 

one had to drive carefully,

up to the Valico di Monte Nibbio, 

the pass of the hawk, 

the highest point before reaching the town. 

From here, in daylight,

one looked over a valley on either side,

the one on the left 

with the toll highway down below,

marked at this time of night 

by a string of lights of cars heading elsewhere, 

the other too steep for farming, 

had reverted to nature and its woods.

Did the hawk still 

soar over these valleys 

in search of prey?

The road now straight 

knew where it was going.

She had always thought

the church set in a hollow on the left, 

with cypresses on either side the portico,

would be a perfect setting

for a wedding. 

A bit further on,

to the right,

the display of traditional terracotta wares 

reflected the origins of the town,

Ficulle, from figulino referring

to the art of the potter and the clay pits 

that had provided generations of potters 

with their  raw materials.

The jugs and pitchers,

lead-glazed with splashes

of dark green,

held wine for the farmer’s table.

Lead was no longer employed 

and she could only hope 

the potter and those who used his wares

had not been adversely affected.

Then came the town itself,

an agglomeration of stone habitations

lining narrow streets.

Few souls wandered around this time of night

as they found a place to park the car.

Closing the door on her past,

she returned to the world of today

and wondered what new memories were in the making.