A garden in another country

A hand of cloud
presses its palm up
against the heavy sky.
Through its fingers
I can see the sun.

I lie beneath the back of the hand
and listen comfortably
as lazy buzzing insects play jazz
in a garden in another country.

A few steps down a footpath
is a tiny roadside shrine
dedicated to ave Maria
and up the steep hill
I make out dark songbirds
circling a medieval slate bell tower
like shadows of angels
playing in shafts of sunlight.

Then in a stone wall behind me
a black snake appears
tonguetastes the flickering air
and stares at me
blank eyes assessing enigmatically.

Not to make too fine
a point
for a valley
somewhat
north of Rome
but I belatedly
suspect
underlying symbolism.

I feel relieved when
a dim roll of thunder
crests the mountain
from the next valley
and it elides back
into a snake-sized crevice.