The spray glimmers in the early sunlight
and the frothy, foamy waves splash in camaraderie.
Verdant vibrancy exults on the nearby shore.
The spluttering, rumbling drone of our motorboat
drowns the hoarse calls of seagulls,
swooping lazily above.
Soon we see her—jewel of cities—
wooden docks, stone piers, tinkling masts,
gilded domes, needle-like spires. . .
Venezia.

We are yet more tourists
to join the common, crowded cobbles.
Along the docks, a sea breeze frisks playfully
as we enter the city, the heat, the wonder.
“Buon Giorno!”—but the pigeons screech it the loudest.

Sunbeams glint off gild and gold,
illumining the fixed faces of saints
on San Marco’s many arches.
Inside, the dim, vaulted radiance
hushes voice and step. In aged splendor,
the mosaics high above gleam with untouchable beauty.
In the still duskiness and old glory,
one forgets the glare, heavy air, dirt, dust, birds, stench. . .

Yet still the streets are charming:
homely shutters in disrepair look out on uneven cobbles,
and tendrils of climbing vines grope along battered brick.
Italian signs direct with flourished arrows
and gelato tempts on every corner.
Up over brown canals, the narrow bridges look down on gondolas.

In the sleepy sunlight of afternoon,
we rest on worn statues.
Our boat soon takes us back over the twilit waves,
streaked with bubbly gold in the sunset.
We return to country roads, villas, vineyards—
the friendly peace of Italy.