The bells toll all night on the hour and half hour.
The stream, piped under the main street,
makes its noisy exit into the sea
But little Riomaggiore sleeps on.
The green shutters are closed. 
All is quiet in the multi-coloured buildings
rising steeply up the V-shaped valley
through narrow alleys, steps and squares
to the two churches, their bells and the fort.

All is quiet too in the sinuous lines
of ancient, dry-stone walled terraces,
beautiful in the purest, most simple way,
stepping the steeply rising terrain
from cliff's edge to high mountain ridge,
the labour of scores of thousands over centuries.
With what effort they were built, filled with vines,
olives, a scattering of figs and lemons
and left as a legacy to the grateful future.

At 7 A.M. both church bells toll
many times in strange syncopation
and little Riomaggiore arises:
coffee is served in Bar Centrale;
workers gather, sit, talk and smoke;
garbage is collected; produce delivered;
shopkeepers arrange boxes of fruit
on either side of their front door.
The Take-Away Pizzerias, the restaurants,
The "Authentic Italian Pasta" shop,
and Gelataria Centrale sleep on,
as do the gift shops, the laundromat,
and "Art in Banchi", with its exquisite pottery and craft.
Soon, they too will open and little groups
will stand noisily and happily chatting
and flocks of tourists will emerge
from the pink, blue, yellow and ochre buildings
with backpacks, cameras and poles
to walk the beautiful, steep, terraced hills
and medieval villages of the Cinque Terre.
                        

From Riomaggiore the almost vertical track
rises step after step up through the terraces.
At resting points there are superb views
along the steep and rugged coastline
and glimpses of the brightly coloured
Ancient villages of the Cinque Terre.
Then, at over three hundred metres,
we begin to walk along the terraces,
still climbing, but less steeply,
up the west sloping mountain-side.
Suddenly, we are on a narrow ridge.
The lightly wooded land drops quickly away.
To the left, way below in the far distance,
La Spezia clings to a beautiful bay
and beyond that, on the horizon,
are the marble, snow-covered Alps.
To the right, through the light woodland,
is the glittering blue of the sea,
at some indistinct point
merging with the blue of the sky.
The day is mild and still. 
A single bird sings.
Our footsteps are muted on the pine-needled path.
In dappled shade, we walk in hushed quiet
and silently gaze in awe and wonder.