From Mazzaro the road winds high
Past stumps of vines like terraced graves:
Catania is sand and dry
And the road throws sunlight back in waves.
Inland from ocean’s seamless robe-
Ionian, classic, folded deep-
The fields give up in lava-flow
Where Etna’s snow and fires sleep.
And south towards Syracuse the streams
That crank and sprawl through ditch and fold
Break down in gray mud and gray stones,
The faults and fissures of the old.
A field of fire where three roads meet-
Bougainvillea, redbud, sun-
Laps up against the gray concrete
Emplacement for a German gun.
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