Poetry Blog by Greg Freeman (Italy)

Rooftops (for Bruno Cordati)

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The worst of the front was that trickle of rain

down the neck. Wet through, it felt like liberation.

And lice. Home on leave, people shunned him in trains.

 

Walled, hilltop village of his childhood:

as another war came, he returned to Barga.

Saw himself as immobile, a tree spreading roots.

 

When the Germans briefly retook his village

one self-portrait was damaged. The ...

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