Winding hill roads, with crumbling walls
heavy with mosses and fragile flowers,
lead ever downward towards the town,
through hot apple orchards high on the hill
damp under mists from high swinging sprays.
Merano in her flowered, summer best,
basking in the summer sun, takes us in.
Pink washed houses, red tiled roofs,
half closed shutters of faded green,
window-boxes of tumbling flowers,
hint of geraniums in the sun.
old doors with peeling paint
line narrow streets, and
echos from the blacksmiths hammer
mix with the scent of hot, new bread.
In a quiet street donkey hooves
sound soft clip-clop past open doors
where old men sit, sucking their pipes
in a haze of pungent smoke.
Wide church doors, invitingly open,
gold and silver, velvet and lace,
cool air, candles comfort and peace
where long, dusty sunbeams fall,
in mellow benediction.