And the mole crept along the garden,
And moonlight stroked the young buds of
The lemon trees, and they walked the five lands . . .
Sheer terraces, rocks rising
Straight up from the sea; the strung vines
Of the grapes, the upraised hands of the olives,
Presided and blessed. Between Vernazza
And Monterosso, along a path
Cut into the sea cliff, a place for lovers
To look down and consider their love,
They climbed up to the double-backed lane
Where a few old women gathered herbs
By the roadside. Voices—
Scattered in the hills above—
Fell like rushes in a wind, their rasp and echo
Traveling down and forever in the clear sea air . . .
Then clouds, then mist, then a universal gray . . .
Where Signore and Signora Bianchini are having lunch,
She stops to talk with them, weather being
The unavoidable topic. Slips of rain, a child’s
Scrawl, sudden layers and pages—then, at last,
The fan of sunlight scraping clean
The sky. Here, the world’s
Very old, very stubborn, and proud. In the twilight:
Shadow and other, watching the painted foam of
Waves running from the sunset
To the coves, the overturned skiffs, the white nets
Drying in the reddening air. She stood
Behind him, resting her hand on his shoulder. Night
Spread above them like a circling breeze,
The way a simple memory had once
Returned to Montale, calming his childhood
And a troubled winter sea. The air still cleansing,
She said, the heart that was uncleansable. The unforgiving
One, that heart. . . . A boy in an emerald sweater
Passed, out walking a mongrel in good spirits. Across
The scallop of bay, the boats began
Returning to the harbor. Silent. Harsh. Such country
Breaks the selfish heart. There is no original sin:
To be in love is to be granted the only grace
Of all women and all men.
(The Cinque Terre)