Poppies

This is a year of poppies, our land
was overflowing with them when I returned
between May and June, and got drunk
on a wine so sweet, so dark.
From cloudy mulberry to grain to meadow,
ripeness was all, in a gentle
heat, a slow drowsiness
spread throughout the green universe.
Now at life's midpoint, I've seen
grown-up sons go off alone
and disappear beyond the net of flights
the swallow keeps to in the spent glow
Of stormy evening,
and the pain gave way
naturally to the lights of home,
of another dinner in air refreshed,
by hail unleashed in the distance.

Attillio Bertolucci