Rising in Firenze

Insistent buoy in fog,

the campanile rings.

I wake. Along a line

of ancient bricks

arching over me,

I count time as if

I could subtract the guilt

from the gong, make its song

a clock, but a clock

bongs out there too,

and after seven -ongs fade

in the hills of baffling

cypresses, the church bell

still drives the pid-pid-pid

of joggers up our hill

as I stretch and yawn

by the pigeon-clucking sill.

(c) Copyright 1999. The Christian Science Publishing Society

Share this story:

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.




Save for later


Saved ( of items)

This item has been saved to read later from any device.
Access saved items through your user name at the top of the page.

View Saved Items


Failed to save

You reached the limit of 20 saved items.
Please visit following link to manage you saved items.

View Saved Items


Failed to save

You have already saved this item.

View Saved Items