bound with fragrance....
each night I leaned at my window, looking at the
mediterranean night sky, my bare feet cool on the marbled
floor. the sill holding the days sun. Shutting the old
green shutters I would climb into the four poster bed which
waited, shrouded in swathes of soft nets that moved gently
in the breath of air coming from the cedar tree in the
gardens. the monogrammed sheets were smooth with ironing,
and smelt of sun.
each morning riquetta brought my breakfast. fresh home
baked bread staight from the shining range in the kitchen,
honey, coffee and fruit. she would light the little
cylindrical boiler above the enormous bath, in moments
there would be three knobbly cedar cones flaming joyously,
the water bubbling out of the small pipe and into the bath.
the smell of cedar was energising...evocative, and still
lies in my heart..
in the beautiful old gardens the flower beds were edged
with clipped box hedges, their pungency a crisp background
to lavender, roses, and newly watered geraniums. orange and
lemon trees, leaves shining with spray were dark against
the jewels of their fruit. gardeners hoed and snipped, dug
and raked while along the viale the old pink pillars,
covered in rich vines, threw shade on the path where
sparrows scuffled in the dust...
as night fell the gardens filled with the soft flutter of
moths, the cicadas song, and the gutteral chatter of frogs
by the well, its old stones still warm to touch...you could
just see a glint of silver against the blackness in its
depths, and catch a quick breath of damp from the bleakness
far below .
behind the house the vinyards reached up the surrounding
hills,
ordered, groomed, and heavy with fruit...in the olive
groves dappled shade fell around the old knarled trees,
painting patterns on the ground... the silence so complete
the whirr of bird wings the only sound
memories of santa caterina,
bound with fragrance
Pim Claridge