Marina Grande Poem by Ronnie Smith

At six, the sun rises silently
over Punta Campanella.
Empty boats bob gently
within their mirrored fortress
and the choir in the trees
begin their concert of the light.

By nine, the silence
has long been vanquished.
Defeated by the powerful growl of diesels,
the din of horns and sirens
and the insistent, incessant nonsense
of people, people, people.

By ten, the harbour is a scene
from the landing at Salerno.
Cohorts of the curious and confused
pass through behind umbrella standards,
clutching their screens and sticks
to worship the new religion of 'me'.

They advance from the beach
to commandeer buses, taxis
and the funicolare. To shop, eat,
click and ask the same questions
asked yesterday and the day before...
'Is the Chardonnay cold? '

It's over before sunset.
They disappear in clouds of fumes
and the rumbling of anchor chains.
Gone as mysteriously as the birds
who stop singing every evening.
And the empty boats bob gently.


Capri, April 2016