The Place As It Was:

The city domes and spires

Palaces, many-moated

Lying in the sunlight,

Pigeons fluttering skyward

As one strolls across

The Piazza San Marco.

Music, much music, light and

Waltzes all around the cafes,

And people, so many!

Loud and colourful Italians,

Brash, camera bestrewn

Americans, who’d “Just love

To take it home to Alabama.”

Hard faced Germans

And busy little Japanese

Who look so serious,

So incongruous,

In a city of love and laughter.

Sit, as I have oft times,

And watch the world

Bustle and stroll by,

Bustlers with bags and

A grim sense of purpose

Etched on their bustly faces

And lovers strolling

Arm in arm,

There but not there.

Sit drinking wine that warms

In the glorious sun;

Sit and watch the

Gondolas, launches

Water buses and

All sorts of eccentric craft

Buzzing round the canals,

Amazingly never seeming

To crash, only touch

At times with much

Cursing and gesticulating

From crew and passengers.

Walk gently, looking for shade,

And gaze long, with bewilderment

At the beauty of the work

Of the silversmiths;

And when it gets cooler cross

The bridges, pass through

The multi-smelling markets

And enter places hot as hell,

Where beauty, vastly fragile

Beauty, is blown from long

Pipes pulled from the fires

And take on shapes, some

Unimaginable, in glass.

Churches, cafes, bridges and

More bridges, then a sudden

Quiet piazza with but a single

Old, old lady sitting

Enjoying a place of shade,

Reliving memories and

Remembering dreams in

The city of dreams.

Venice, beautiful beyond imagining,

Glorious, bizarre, a dream within

A dream, within a dream.

Venice the enchanter

I have always loved

And though I never

See her again

She remains deep

In my heart.