Poetry

It’s the last part of summer
and the day is hot and bright,
cloudless with a perfect clear blue sky
after days of drenching rain
while I can smell the fragrances
of frying tomato, green and red peppers,
spring onions, chili and some pasta
from the kitchen
while the radio on the table
plays a song by Eros Ramazzotti.
 
She talks about hot summers
inTuscany,Normandy
and about theRivierainFrance
of which the song reminds her.
 
I ask her if she had holidayed there
or if she still want to go to visit
and she tells me that she is dreaming
about a holiday along the French coast
and of visitingItaly, about wandering
in fields full of lavender
and of painting theEiffelTower
andParisafter dark.
 
The sun is still scorching outside
and on the walls pots full of gardenias flower
as if it’s the beginning of spring
while a swarm of sparrows, weavers
and some doves peck up the seed
that was scattered for them on the grass
and I can feel her soft body against mine
as she embraces me from behind
and when I turn around to kiss her
the moment lingers
and it feels as if this summer
can last forever.