The Pile Of Poo

A bus trip through the Northern Beaches, it slowed to fifty near the houses, the dark haired lady, one who teaches about the past and thus arouses historic curiosity, explains how Caesar and his troups fought vicious animosity. My eyes are heavy from the vino imbibed with other tourist groups, so late last night, that Bardolino, the bus now stopped to let a cow get to the other side to eat. Superb, this scenery but how she talks about defeat of Roman power in those days? Who cares, my eyes now start to wander. Across the potholed, dusty road, a picket fence of purple hue, in front of which a wagonload of fly-attracting bovine poo is being shovelled, bit by bit onto the garden soil by one with scrumptious looking olive skin, a broad-rimmed hat repels the sun and beads of sweat run off her chin. Blue overalls accentuating a promised figure, age nineteen, she glances briefly at the waiting green tourist bus she must have seen a hundred times before this day. Was there a spark that flew just now, all eyes are busy with the drama of how the local Holstein cow has left the scene. The panorama of barren foothills with no grass has caught her eye. And, udder-swinging, she disappears, her bovine ass gets smaller. Sparks anew are bringing me back to those blue overalls. And now, we lock alerted eyes, perception of the highest order, reptilian urge I realise that we will soon drive through the border and leave this Italy behind. A sense of loss, it comes and sweeps this fool who will not ever find the courage now, instead he weeps inside about his loss already when fading in the growing distance, in this small town of white spaghetti, the beauty NODS her lovely head, thus melting all of my resistance I sit and stare, and think I'm dead. It was at dusk on July 30 when, tired and with one torn shoe I wandered in, alone and dirty until I saw the pile of poo. I can't remember if my nerves did fail or threatened mutiny if ancient, dusty mem'ry serves one half of me said 'turn and flee'. The other half, however, lusted with brightly burning inner fire the choice was either to get busted for stark display of my desire, perhaps get thrown inside a jail or shot at by a jealous lover. The question was, succeed or fail. New confidence began to hover above me like an angel now. With sudden flair I jumped the fence, at last I know exactly how to handle this. She looked so tense, I took her hand and said in German that I had come to marry her. Now nervous, I produced a sermon that had her listen, not a stir was seen or felt, I kept her hand in mine and looked into her eyes. That's where I stood, in foreign land, in seventy-one, when a surprise transformed her pupils that had stared, they softened and two tiny tears rolled down her cheeks as if they cared about those words of mine, new fears emerged from my left-sided brain. I heard the music of Franz Liszt undoubtedly, I was insane. But no, it happened and she kissed me on the cheek the right then on the left and right again. The hope however that she might approach the centre where we men do have the sentry for our heart was premature, perhaps she would dismiss me like a foreign tart, (I think she was convinced she should) . Three decades later she confessed that of those words in seventy-one she'd understood, truly, at best the melody but, sadly, none of any meaning or specific, yet all of what I said that day was felt by her to sound terrific and filed inside her soul to stay. So, here we are, unloading poo in our garden, by that fence. You look at me, I look at you and nothing else makes too much sense.