Piedmont

Among northwest peaks, where water
Is bottled, in a domain of Occitan,
Turin sets eyes on foreign favor,
Brings together regional fare,
Hosts games, conferences, events,
In alpine serenity, mottled air.

Rivers have carved up these valleys –
The Po rising out of the Monviso,
Between Monte Rosa, a Grand Paradis.
This terrain was once Savoy and Alba
Then Genoa reclaimed the mountains
To ward off Napoleon.

Today as if with frayed rope,
Vineyards grip the dry clay soil,
Grow Barolo, Barbaresco, Moscato,
The lesser known Barbera, Dolcetto,
Nebbiolo, Grignolino, Brachetto,
Freisa skins distilled into grappa.

Fiats come down from industrial works,
Turned out by workers in Turin,
Railways bead the hills with prayer.
Tissues and silks, finer wares of Biella,
Famed factories of chocolate Ferrero
Bonded with banking and insurance –

Berlusconi is not alone in the afternoon
Shadows of these winding, sinister valleys
Under a left-center local minister.
Miracles moved by these mountains
Maintain the pinnacle in massif
Movements teetering on an avalanche.