PIAZZA AWAKENING:

Five in the morning & sleep eludes me, so I get up in the cool dawn & softly pad out of the room, leaving behind the all night´s fractured dreamings, sortings & schemings that snatched me from the arms of Morpheus my errant lover. Closing the door softly on the crumpled soft snorings, I go out into the quiet empty street. The silence would be sullen if it weren’t so delicious. I wend my way along the ancient city´s cobble streets, winding around whispering corners. I´m not entirely sure whether the clip-clop sound following me are my own resounding footsteps or those of history´s ale drays. Looking around me I realize that the only shadows embracing me are my own, din-laden in their silence. I walk past the old church of dead saints & hear the lost voices of choristers long gone & the whisperings of monks at their vespers & I bow my head. Leaving behind me the cloistered incantations, I make my sombrous way towards the mosaic-tiled, tree-clad piazza. The old trees of gnarled trunks, yews & cedars, planted long before my birth to give shade to those seeking succor from the unforgiving southern sun, a sun that still slumbered behind its mantle of nocturnal velvet. I arrive at the vacant piazza & sit on an old wooden bench besides the cascading fountain. Across the sleeping city an old church bell chimes the new day in, serenading the night´s last satin-winged bat, flitting past me on his way home. On the other side of the Piazza the gay voices of long dead chorines echoes from the peeling sepia walls of the old dilapidated music hall & I close my heavy-lidded eyes & wait for day to greet me. The sun creeps skulking behind the old tiled roofs casting rosy shadows that dance off walls & bounce off cracked pavements. I am kissed on my cheek by a sunbeam & open my eyes to find morning has arrived. An iridescent-feathered pigeon struts pecking up the nights crumbs. A rosary-rattling nun hurries past with folded hands & down cast eyes. Sounds now emitting from every corner of this old city waking up, yawning & stretching with people slowly getting to know the morn. An old woman shuffles to the bench on the other side of the crisp chattering fountain & from an old tattered bag she takes a handful of bread crumbs & throws them in direction of the strutting pigeon. On the scattering of crumbs a flock of birds descends from the shivering treetops above, scrabbling for an early free breakfast. Children scuttle past, giggling & pushing on the way to school, men in suits, women in heels, dog walkers & street cleaners with their brooms. An old man, bent & grey taps his walking stick past me, smiles & doffs his hat. I look around me & see the vibrant colours of the geraniums spilling over their pots around the Piazza. The last of the diamante dew drops clinging to slinky, sparkling spider webs, woven between the intricate wrought iron arm-rests of the old wooden benches, while their inhabitants sleep deeply. The aromas of freshly baked bread & rich espresso coffee beckon to me & I rise to follow their hungry beckoning. I step on crunchy burnished autumn leaves as they try to dance away in the frisky breeze. Now the sun is playing cruel tricks as the Piazza awakens to another hot day, so I seek the shaded beams as I wend my home lost in dawn´s dreams.