Morning over the Adriatic
On a balcony overlooking the Adriatic, dawn fails to wake sleepy tourists; I have the view all to myself. Little sparks of light speak of fishermen, assuring tonight’s dinner will be ‘sea to table.’
A soft voile mist blankets but cannot veil, and mottled silver breaks through steel clouds—morning won’t be held back any longer.
Ten centuries prepared, old town gazes, steadfast, through long black rectangle eyes, from rustic peach stone facings here to whitewashed monuments there. All stand, precarious yet without fear, on a crumbling, stratified rock cliff.
I see the church bell through the arched window of the tower. That will wake the tourists, I think with a teasing grin. This feast for the eyes can’t be wasted on just me.
But then—never wasted when a soul is fed.