PERALTA

Do you know the land where the lemon trees bloom?
There watches Peralta; shaped and hewn
From Etruscan history
Looking down on the ignorant valley below.
Perched high on the hill top, at the end of the track,
Which climbs, every upwards, then, surprise! Doubles
back.
Before onwards, and upwards and so scrapingly close to
the shingle claw walls of the roadside house,
through whose yard we drive with
a prayer, a gasp,
just keep your foot down, pressed hard to the gas, for
we'd better not stop
until we lurch into the car park, and tensed muscles
relax.

"We're here."
"Thank God"
"Peralta"
"At last!"

Dinner's a banquet, nay, a Tuscan feast!
Shoulder to shoulder with strangers to start, you soon
share your stories, your music, your heart.
The hopes and dreams you want to achieve;
what is this force that invites us, to give, to
receive?
Woodsmoke cracks, but not as loud as the laughter,
orange sparks flying off, like the lightning outside.
Far away in the Med.
Far far out to sea, beyond Camaiore's misted hills,
scented trees.

Another dish arrives, just as good as the last.
Spinach, shallots, just marvelous wine "another
glass?'
Flavours so familiar, yet new, all blend together in
the tastes and the smell,
from dry summers gone by, long warm evenings of light.

Fallen olives turned to oil
in vast barrels,
cold pressed,
bottled tight.

Capturing rosemary, basil, thyme and green lemon.
The leaf lined stairs and terraces, and cobble stoned
niches.
Tired terracotta tiles, worn by the storms,
that have passed through Peralta, over the years.

What a chance, what a treat,
to have come here for a while, where time is more
still.
Such a short while we have had, these last few days,
but rich, productive, a perfect retreat.
We have shared in the food, the fun and the work;
surrounded by faces of stone, looking over our
shoulders,
as if critiquing, with quiet comments whispered from
their lips of clay.
Such important faces, that shaped the world, our
lives, our history, our today.

So, please may we take with us just a little from
here, the spirit, the art,
and
whilst in lowest gear,
leave lighter of heart, though heavier of hip.

And as we slowly roll down, with a bump and a dip
to slip back to other lives, other faces, other loves,
other places,
we leave knowing we can write! (So we hope.)
We're arrived
at a new beginning
"we're here."
"Thank God for Peralta"
"At last!"
We made it, thank you Margaret and Kathy
We've all passed!

Thank you Bob, for the banjo
Neil for the fire
For food, friends, chauffeurs, music and art.
David, Jane and Mango; Laura and Kate
Your work meeting our every desire.
Thank you all; with whole heart.

And to Dinah, well, just where do we start?
Just simply I think, that's probably best.
Thank you for sharing your wonderful home,
for making us welcome
despite the odd moan.
Thank you for sharing Fiore, her idea, her design.
By continuing; her creativity you inspire.

So what next? For this place and for us?
Our writing, our sculpting, our music, our lives?
Non, lo so - we can't know, but for now we can say
For these moments, in Peralta
"Mille Grazie."

Jenny Persson - October 2005

Following her week at our writing course

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