Why I Write

I write because
I had no camera,  no tape recorder;
I bought no picture postcards,
but I want to share with you
what I saw,
what I heard.

The smell of places,
food cooking, bread baking.

The sound of church bells
from the church across the valley.

The village band playing as,
on that feast day,
they carried the Black Madonna
in procession through the streets.

The smiling faces of the sunflowers
bidding me 'buon viaggio' as I set off
for my day's outing, still smiling
to welcome me on my return
in the late afternoon.

The smoke rising lazily from Vesuvius;
the lemon trees growing in the streets of Sorrento;
the boatman singing 'Torna a Surriento'
as I ducked my head to enter the Blue Grotto.

The savour of fresh-caught fish
garnished with fresh-picked lemon.

As you read this
feel the texture of the paper
on which I write.
Hand-made in a small shop
close by Santa Croce and
bought there after my visit
to Brunelleschi's Pazzi Chapel.

The feel of the pen,
the texture of the paper,
the memories I want to share with you.
That's why I write.