Life on the ragged edge of a Mediterranean climate:
Again this morning
Sudden, under the monotony
Of unchanged days.
What’s left to tip this scratched record?
Slipping beats, mercilessly turning
To an old song
Still sharp and biting
But in new ways not heard then.
How far south
Or just across
Do I need to go
For the broad skies
Painted in pastel masteries.
Before the waiting time resumes.