by Chris Dabnor
Beyond the softly swaying trees,
the dancing white butterflies,
the terracotta roofed houses that punctuate the rich green rolling hills,
Boats carve great white scars across the Bay of Naples.
The sky is fat with thick grey clouds,
which threaten to devour a distant monastery.
The cheerful chatter of birds dances around a composition of Satie.
In the distance the bell of an unknown church rings.
I know now why Steinbeck wept.