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Judy Gahagan

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Italian Garden

This garden’s love was darkness.
The stone coordinates of step and terrace,
geometry of walks, so hard at noon,
were ardent by night with whispers,
muffled giggles, flitting shadows.
A stage for the underlife of dynasties.
Evergreen boxed trees were diplomatic,
unperturbed by breeze or assignations.
The moon-shot brilliance of the fountain
held all eyes, while cloaked plotters
brought down kings and counts and popes,

or so you might imagine. And now?
Spread across the hill to fade
threadbare, to dry to aromatic dust,
the garden suffers the crunch
of reluctant feet on gravel
and perennial daytime; when big-legged callers
from a frank age, full-frontal in the sun
sprawl, talking loudly about money.
The statues look sullen like August waiters,
gesturing half-heartedly as the fountain drips,
and everything is visible.

 

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