Church bells from the village mark the passing of an hour,
The day is rolling by as fast as clouds form overhead,
Warmth from above hints the sun is up there, somewhere,
But it’s hidden by a palette of swirling white and grey.
Lake Como stretches moodily towards the south,
The hills, so smudged with haze, store secrets inside:
Clouds cover the highest peaks, spilling over hilltop towns,
Mysteriously concealing houses, churches, trees and streams.
Twenty empty sun loungers border the deserted pool;
Its turquoise ripples twinkling, despite the murky day,
On the terrace, rows of unopened parasols stand tall,
Like uniformed soldiers defending their stronghold.
In the village, quaint houses painted orange, red or yellow
Look like autumn leaves gathered at the bottom of a hill.
There are no people to be seen or heard;
No boats in the water, no birds in the sky,
It’s peaceful, but for the waves that crash against the pebble shore,
Churning up the dirt and debris from deep within.
Despite the sun not shining, the atmosphere is warming,
And the lake is so precious, it needs wrapping in cotton wool.