Via Clivio

the tile lined roof on the last villa

of the petty nobles of this town

sags like the jaw line of a matron.

her voice sings out

a spinster’s peevish tweet:



(distant falling daughter of whatever local saint

though aren’t we all?)

shames her poor dog.

he of:

nothing to do but go mad with barking;

jamesian psycosis

closed shutters

infinite empty rooms.

By bonniemcclellan

Mother, poet, american ex-pat from Texas living in Northern Italy.


  1. I may be a falling (fallen?!) daughter, but I’m not sure I came from a saint! Lovely poem and picture!

  2. Oh, I really like this one Bonnie. I mean I like them all, but this one does it for me. I can SEE this poem.

  3. Very elegant and classical. It reflects it’s subject perfectly. “Nothing to do, but go mad with barking.” I know the feeling well.

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