Weather - Camilla Basham

I will die in Rome on a rainy day.

It will be a Tuesday at 4 pm.
The Villa Borghese shall be the last to feel my footsteps.
Bernini's Pluto and Proserpina the last to sense my awe.
The wine, sweet.
The music, sweeter.
I shall walk amidst the bougainvillea draped archways
and ancient ruins littered with homeless feline.
I shall stop to watch the street walkers bathe
in the fountain at the foot of the Spanish Steps
and stare down at my alabaster feet atop the ebony cobblestone.
I will raise my dark hair,
wipe the back of my neck
and curse the sun,
only to smile at it's warmth as I once again raise my face to the sky.
I will adjust my white linen dress;
the one with the embroidered hem and tied back neck.
I will make my way across the narrow street
under the women in black beating rugs from their opened windows.
I will watch as they lift their heads
to curse the clouds rolling in from the distance.
I will feel the unexpected birth of rain upon my cheeks.
I will hear my name in the distance.
It will be you.
I will die in Rome on a rainy day.
It will be a Tuesday at 4 pm.