Magpies break the news,
their song the only sound
until bells chime
from a church
with padlocked doors.
Vicalvi is dying.
Careworn medieval town
shelters its diagnosis
behind persimmon trees,
grape vines,
a castle crown.
Vicalvi is dying.
Realization slips in
like gray hair,
like crows’ feet.
Crumbling walls,
creeping vines,
feral cats.
Villagers turn their backs
as tourists pass.
Mother Mary watches
from her weathered shrine,
arms outstretched.
Leave a Comment