We came to spy the sea
far below this ridge:
Like so much in this
remembered land,
I must imagine it,
and the Alpuan Alps,
and the Appenines,
over there—
somewhere.  

Like the ghosts
of mercenaries,
of merchants,
of princely vassals,
hurrying along 
these rocks,
four or five
centuries gone—
sometime.  

Are the bells  
I hear theirs?
Or just the cows
belonging to Alberto,
who met us
on the road which
was slipping away,
guiding the backhoe
to shore up a way
to dreams—
somehow.