Sacred Waters

The sun has only a short way to fall
behind the Italian Alps, but full 
dark is a long time coming. 
These endless evenings draw the ill 
and elderly out 
to stroll the gentle switchback trails
to the spa's high gardens.
  
I watch them at dinner, folding warm rolls 
into their napkins, 
capping the curative mineral water. 
In the lift they are silent, formal, 
holding the bottles as stiffly as vials 
of mercury or urine samples.
Here, the waters are sacred; they fall
  
from the mountains like white linen, 
sing in the distance all night, 
and are precious. 
Bread serves another purpose:
beyond the first gate, the hotel swans 
ply tended pools, living 
on bread alone. Waiting. 

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