Dialect Poetry of Southern Italy (Italian Poetry in Translation Book 2)

Uncle Pietro

The hand is busy writing,
my ears, sharpened, hear
a jangle from the garden,
a slow song without a tune,
a movement from afar:
I listen, to clangs of a pitchfork.
It’s Pietro,
my grandmother’s father,
who died when I was one:
why is he calling me now?
When he’s done with one patch,
the music stops
(my song is stilled);
then he wipes his sweat,
bends his back, starts again
(as my song resumes):
finally, he makes me out and smiles...