Fog

Fog in Giovanio

1st of september 2016

cocks crow and the fog over gioviano dears. It is an

Autumn  sunrise. The clothes left on the balcony

clothes line over night are sodden now, as wet as when

they were washed.

The light yellows now, the fog thickens again. There

is hardly any wind, and the banks of water vapour move

slowly over the hills.

This would have heem terrible yesterday, on the twisting

winding roads with all their sudden corners, zigzagging their

-ways up and down the mountains.

Mountains all cut up and marked by the miners

cutting huge blocks of marble out at them.

Marble that weighs in at two tons, eight hundred kilograms

per cubic meter, single blocks of fifty tonnes, one overloaded

lorry.

The sun breaks through, and the old house opposite is

bathed in a most picturesque soft light. There is the

sound of gunshots echoing from the hills, hunters out

early, make life hard for the wild boars.

The sons alarm sounds, he ignores it, switch it off,

it is the last day off the holidays, maybe the last time ever in

this village.

There is the sound of a woodpecker drumming at a tree

and, down under the balcony there is a red, black and white

cat hunting. It is under the hedge, waiting for mice.

Think of yesterdays views, cliffs of marble hundreds of feet

high, cut out of the hill smooth and cleanly.  A cliff made

up of rectangles, each demarcated by the drill marks that

served as a glide for the cutting wires that cut the blocks

down from the mountain.

Just a white and grey surface, stained with the

oil and residue from those wires.

 Later, much later,

to line the floors of bathrooms and palaces the world

over.