Venezia

The dominant colour is of cream,

the smooth, time-honoured white of

aristocratic skins

and museum pilasters;

and yellow, luminous

of limoncello, signs for the vaporetto

or the €4 sandals bought

to stay cool under a hard noon

sun.

This is a city that walks on

salt water, is wound

around it like a tightly

coiled spool of thread,

moving marc and

refuse through the

devoted flow of the

tributaries and

traghetti.

It is glass in window

shops, golden apostles

above lights and

entries of old. Where

ships came in; and were

lost for a pound of

flesh or a walk

of shame of a pick

pocket in a palazzo

of sky-ward masques,

cameras and pigeons.

The striped Grand

gondoliers stirring

Venezia into a cast

spell of Perniccia’s

golden time

held world.