Il Paretaio, Tuscany 2004
Felt the hard stone of the window’s lip
against my hand, its age, the permanence
of walls. Night breathed in
the dark and swung a pocket watch
over the hills and winding roads
until they slept and in the olive grove below
fireflies swam in whirlpools in the trees
where a nightingale sang:
For god’s sake hold me or I’ll drown.
by Neil Flatman
Editor’s Note: The plaintive call of the last line echoes the fading notes of the nightingale. Short poems are difficult to write, but when they’re done well, the imagery lingers in a reader’s mind.