Half a millennia of footsteps
crossed this courtyard,
five centuries of ghosts
hang around in doorways
as a bright, new moon
sits low in the sky,
offering no prayer
to small devils that spit at stars,
or a lost woman
who follows a different path.

Florence is full of magic boxes
spellbound by humanity,
and centuries of Christ.
Yet secrets hide behind huge doors
and apartments sway to a night,
where cornered sound betrays the ear
and silence…
is simply an afterthought.

This city knows me like no other.
Was it accident or luck that found me?
Where cobbles bite stilettos
and gypsy women curse sleep
beneath striped blankets,
their future protected by tiny Fiats
and lop-sided scooters,
sentinels of the years.

Tomorrow's house sparrows bring sun

and sun, indulgent mamas,

frilling up the ice cream parlour with heat.

There is always heat,

captured tonight,
by slim hemmed streets,
and to touch both walls
feels almost painless