Old Movies (Poetry)

She’d been twenty-four that summer —
July and August spent working on location
and she’d fallen in love so overwhelmingly
her eyes shone and the camera made her its new darling.

There was no need for acting — her face glowed
those smiles a genuine expression of pure joy
and no direction required — that dizzy elation flowed
and her leading man took credit while supporting cast and crew
imagined that a spark had caught —
those kisses must be real beneath a hot blue Italian sky.

Even the stills caught the full flavour of her rapture
that never faded — never lost its hold
reflected in the celluloid — rekindled
in the digital remastering of legends —
the capture of a look — a wondering stare.

Somehow the heat transmitted frame by frame
and the dampness of the fountain’s random spray
cooled her skin across the gap of fifty years —
light bounced on statues bathing in the square
and romance hung its bunting everywhere.

The city drowsy — wide piazzas shot
without the clutter of retreated crowds
milling — all thoses extras found the bars
and eateries — the coolness of repast
and conversation pooling somewhere dim —
away from spotlights and the zooming lens.

In truth she did not care that much for him —
the star the paparazzi stalked at every turn —
her youth eclipsed him — the worldly-wise director knew
how aspects change and cosmology accepts
both rise and wane trajectories of fame.

The soundtract builds — a ghost of violins
woos her from the balcony of age
and takes her back — restores and sharpens all
those sights and sounds — the marble-cool caress
of pillared stone and breathless flight of steps...

Memory’s the subtle editor
who can pinpoint from a dozen likely takes
the very scene — relive it and absorb
the thrill again — the exact moment when
she fell in love with Rome.