Heavy, dark sky like Noah's hangs there.
Gray land in the gray distance blurry --
As churning waves toss our giant ferry like a toy,
And the frigid wind whips hair and clothes flapping.
Across the Strait of Messina
Sicily waits . . .
Gray land in the gray distance blurry,
Patiently waiting, always patiently waiting.
Alone with moment upon moment as sadness creeps
And crawls its cold fingers around my soul,
Fears churn inside.
Wind, cold, tears, gray land
In the gray distance blurry make
Dream of golden land
Suddenly closer gray slides into wheat drab tan.
Sky moving, rearranging the gray
With soft white, blue,
From up above arms reach sun-light down --
Shafts piercing gray dark,
Ripping drab away, shooting
Grand shimmering circles
Onto dark somber water and land,
Now slowly golden.
The ferry touches shore,
As sun-lighting day, soul-lifting
Heart joy's rush brings
Warm tears, welcome
I am an Italian-American writer who lives in San Francisco, California. I invite your comments in English or Italian about Sicily -- or about what I have written.
Watch here for additional stories about Sicily.
Home: Mary Tolaro-Noyes HomepageLast update: 20-Mar-2004 Page Author: Mary Tolaro-Noyes