The Song of Grizzlyluddite

In the hills of Old Buvicchia

‘cross the sweeping Serchio valley,

Shaded by the sleeping shepherd,

Shaded by the whispering pine trees,

Stands the home of Grizzlyluddite –

Father of the bears they call him,

Ill-user of the Great Frullino

Oft a slave to Tagliaerba.

Toiling on into the gloaming,

Digging unforgiving terra,

Tending vines and cutting brambles,

Tending fruit trees and the olives,

Fencing well the due orti –

‘gainst the prowling fierce Cinghiali

‘gainst the thieving, sly Istrice,

So the store be full come winter.

As the fierce sun nears its zenith,

Mad dog inglese labours onward,

Caring not of dehydration,

Watched in awe by the vicini,

Who genuflect and shake their heads

(More in sympathy than in derision).

Return they home – pasta beckons!

And then siesta; comfy letto.

The weary Grizzlyluddite plods

His chosen furrow until dusk,

When bright lights from casements glowing,

Turn thoughts to food, wine and wonder –

What makes La Padrona for his cena?

Could it be stew – with flavour wafting?

Could it be fish? No, it’s not Friday,

Although…there might be chips!!

Late summer days dawn damp, pristine,

Light mists part, reveal vines heavy,

With plump ripe grapes, beloved uva,

“Take us now”, they signal mutely,

“Take us now, for we are ready”,

“Take us to our first vendemmia!”

Willing friends take up their baskets,

Move to gather all before them.

Later, with the tino brimming,

They trudge back towards the table,

Table made by Grizzlyluddite,

Table laid by La Padrona –

Maestra nella cucina – Brenda,

Takes her bow, with arms akimbo,

Hurries off to bring the dolce.

Now with wine and grappa flowing,

Someone pipes “So where’s the music?”

Grizzlyluddite, never backward,

Opens up the worn custodia,

Reveals to all his second true-love,

Body hewn from seasoned pine-log,

Neck and head from distant hard-wood,

Heart of steel and phosphor-bronze, and

Plucking heart-strings ever faster,

Leading all in well-loved song.

Cutlery and plates and glasses,

Marshalled into rough percussion,

Serve to lift the singing skywards,

Giving thanks for next year’s vino,

Giving thanks for next year’s grappa,

Giving thanks for friends and friendship,

The force that binds us all together,

In a world so oft uncertain.

Thus the season closes gently,

Dusk descends on Old Buvicchia,

Dusk descends on Grizzlyluddite,

Holding close cara Padrona,

As the moon bestrides the Pania,

As the evening star is rising,

Fallow fields, seducing, beckon,

“Join us in our winter rest”.

“Join us in our winter rest”.

The Song of Grizzlyluddite (in homage to Longfellow)

Geoff C-W.

Aka grizzlyluddite

Aka grizzlyshortfellow