San Janni Beach, Gulf of Gaeta
That is no country for old men. The young
troop along the sand in lines of string and cloth
tan lines perfectly matched day to day.
The summer piazza swollen with youth: tight bellies
and breasts, which deny gravity's promise.
Even after a season spent gathered
around benches gossiping,
while the women shopped or cleaned
or paused in an empty house, they find
reason to shed wool and congregate
Near the sequined shore men let the saltwater
make bracelets around their legs.
The surf grazes thighs, eyes follow the girls.
These men, bellies pregnant with age
and good food, dare to step into the daylight
in Speedos. They are making up for lost time.
At the bocce games, the clacking of the balls tap
like prayer beads, they recall the forced move away
from the shore. Summer's spent under siege.
They remember playing near the cave entrances
missing the sea mare - still murmured like
a lover's name: mare. That is no country for old men
to revisit, fisherman forced to live off the land.
--Mary Hope
(Copywrite 2001)
