Where I whiled away many months over the years, not quite artist-in-residence, not quite security guard.
Which in more prosperous times produced wine for its own consumption, bottles I would choose at random – no one else would be drinking them again – to pour through coffee filters, and have with dinner.
Whose natural beauty…
…wasn’t spoiled by the straight-away directly beneath my apartment where the Italian drivers could finally gun the engine and pass the stronzo ahead of them.
Whose sunset, every night, was the most beautiful I’d ever seen.
Where I chased pheasants down the cypress walk, but never caught them.
Whose hedge maze of bay, with its hidden well that would bring local partigiani during the second world war to drink and organize the resistance, was thinning to the point of indifference.
Whose lands and outbuildings were sold off bit by bit.
But whose bellezza I’ll keep.
