The tour bus spirals down the sculpted hills
with dips like deep embrasures over-crested
by a green that's almost black. Incised,
the highway seen below, unraveling the rise
down which we ride, is called Romea Road.
Assisi soon. Then, as planned, to Rome.
Along this route, the Tiber bubbles
from an unseen spring, barely covering
the pebbled bed in which the rocks of ages,
now worn small, are grey and dark beneath
the gleam of rivulets which silver through
the map. First Ravenna. The birthing river's
tributaries branch and grow and downward
flow through and past the stillness where,
once a brown-frocked saint addressed himself
to birds. South and west the waters course
to the eternal city, round an island which divides
side from side, and under ancient bridges,
lap the banks of Roman tumult, traffic, noise.
The water here is not safe for slaking thirst.
Signs at fountains warn: Not Potable.
Buy it Umbrian-bottled, where thick and stony
walls: fortresses and winding cobbled streets,
rise above plane trees and cypress stands,
to protect and to preserve the purity of Leonardo's
scenery -- lucent, and like the Tiber's mouth,
cradled and concealed, sweet to tongue and eye,
safe as when the world was young.
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