The Traditions of the Tuscan Farmers

I return to one of the poems from the Tuscan series. The writing is about the day I experienced the collecting of the grapes from the vineyards. It was hard work but all the men would set out to the rows of grapes and the chatter would begin. The whole scene reminded me of a folk art painting. I leave you this vignette;



La Vendemmia

In this autumn of rain,
after long, long days in dry season
timing being all–
October sempre– somewhere
mid-way,
early morning when the dew still
drips silent drops, slow,
from these vines;
a ritual begins anew
in a land of rituals.

Mire grips to boot, the rows heavy;
the vineyard, the methodically plotted lines,
ready to be picked, to be stripped
bare of its precious fruit.

Method unchanged, Old men
tutored in the old ways. This labour of hand,
old hands, hard-worked hands– knees twisted, knuckles knotted–
mimic the vines they pick.

Chatter commences, stories told before
unfold, embroidered slightly, And,
like some off-stage event
the women, sharing their mother’s
mother’s recipes, prepare the traditional meal
gossip alike while waiting to feed the men.
Like Randsig’s painting, the perspective encompassing–
jubilation fills the scene, the year has been good,
the harvest abundant.

The table already set. Unsalted Tuscan bread is broken,
last year’s wine is raised– salute– the toast is made.
The vignette of vigna glimpsed...