Boarding the vaporetto for Torcello ...

I took the vaporetto for Torcello from the Fondamente Nuove -  

Waiting to board, one of a seething crowd, I heard again the words confusione and inferno - I'd not heard those words since Naples - 

I still dreamt about the wild disorder I'd witnessed at the Stazione Marittima - 

I'd learned there how to use my elbows in a crush - 

It was a Saint's Day - the whole of the ravaged beautiful city's population had wanted to go to Capri - 

*

Deftly barging my way up the gangway, I remembered anew that wonderful chaos - 

Soon I was sitting down, shamefully exulting in the fact that others were standing - 

All my life, I thought, I'd too often been a docile apparatchik - now I was wearing blue linen trousers, looking through rakish sunglasses at the world - 

The bow wave of the vaporetto sparkled in the wanton sunlight - water taxis swept past, swaggering youths at their helms - 

I admired the flawless skin of a Chinese girl - 

I heard the engines of the vaporetto hammering joyously like my heart -

Friday 21 August 2015

Fondamente Nuove

Venice

Picking blackberries ...

Just before the Sunday lamb chops at my mum and dad's, Anne asked me to pick some blackberries - 

I left my dad in his armchair, finishing his midday Tanglefoot - 

My mum was in the kitchen, looking out the window - 

She watched the neighbours drive off in their Kia Sedona to The Rusty Cutter -

The hands of my watch were slowing - soon they would stop - 

The Prince of Wales had been open for an hour - 

Two men leaned against its green tiles, digging out cigarettes from the pockets of their trackies - 

The blackberries grew in luscious dangerous tangles out the back, next to the lock up garages - they stained my fingers as I eased them off their prickly stems - 

I remembered picking blackberries with my mum when she was straight and tall - 

I'd walked then in her warm shadow, chattering like a tiny bird - 

12.00

Sunday 30 September 2015

Staunton Road

Havant 

Three dragonflies, a biplane and a grasshopper ...

Stretched out upon the warm pale sand, I traced the flight of three dragonflies - 

One settled near me, its wings still for an instant - its abdomen was like a tiny blue stiletto - 

It took to the air again, flying above my head, darting back and forth, hovering, veering towards the sea, zig zagging above the gorse bushes, hunting I suppose - 

I tried in vain to photograph the dragonflies - they moved so fast with their spooky aerial geometry - 

I took a photograph instead of a grasshopper, which stood motionless, like a marvellous Lilliputian automaton, upon my keffiyeh - 

A few moments later, a biplane flew above the bay, then over the beach - 

It looks like a dragonfly I thought - 

13.30

Saturday 29 2015

Middle Beach

Studland 

Remembering Mama Dore ...

Wandering through the rainswept calles of the Castello, in search of a bar with jazz, I lingered in the Corte Michiel, remembering the first time I'd stayed in Venice - 

Richard and I had found a room off a courtyard like this - I recalled looking up, to see a small square of blue, a reef of windows reaching up to the sky - 

We'd travelled by train across a midnight Europe - 

Dazed and wide eyed, we'd been led by a smiling rogue to Mama Dore's - 

Mama Dore lay upon a sofa in her dimly lit lounge, before an immense TV - the faces of soap opera stars would dissolve into bright swirling dots on the screen - 

Richard said women hissed like cats upon the bridges - I'd felt the very first chill of sadness upon my neck - 

I stood here now, listening to voices coming from the shuttered rooms - 

My shirt was wet with rain - it was very late - the lights in the court held back the shadows - 

19 August 2015

The Corte Michiel

Sestiere Castello

Venice

Madonnas and angels flood my heart with wonder ...

Bright water washes the stones of the palazzo -

Beringed fingers have smoothed the bannister of the dark stair - 

Above my head is a golden ceiling - 

Madonnas and angels flood my heart with wonder - 

The light of heaven fills the salon -  

My wicked bones are cleansed, my eyes are opened - 

16.30

Thursday 20 August 2015

Ca D'Oro

Venice

Drinking Merlot in the Bar Al Campanile ...

I'm drinking Merlot in the Bar Al Campanile - it's just before midnight - the young Americans are drinking grappa - 

It's raining - Africans are selling brellas in the Calle degli Specchieri - 

The cafe orchestras are silent in the Piazza San Marco - 

The bearded bravo pours out more grappa for the Americans - 

There's crazy bebop playing on the radio -  

23.45

Friday 22 August 2015

Bar Al Campanile 

Sestiere San Marco

Waiting for grappa in the Alta Acqua Libreria ...

Idling in the Sestiere Castello, I let chance guide me across its sun drenched campos and campiellos - 

I walked under the gaze of marble angels - I saw shuttered windows high above mysterious courtyards - 

Mazy canals were spanned by narrow bridges - above a doorway there was a face of twisted stone - 

*

In the Campiello del Tintor, off the Calle Longa Santa Maria Formosa, I came upon a bookshop - 

A sign said The most beautiful bookshop in the world - 

I went inside at once, remembering Jay's praise of the Livraria Lello - 

Disordered rooms were heaped ceiling high with books - 

A gondola was crewed by foxed volumes - there were boxes of post cards, fragile magazines, sex comics, missals - 

There were books in all languages - I explored a dark ravine of science fiction - I lingered in a canyon of philosophy - 

A doorway opened onto milky blue water - a girl sat reading in an antique chair - painted upon a green door were the words Alta Acqua Libreria - 

A man of utterly dissolute appearance smoked a cigarette - he threw back his head, blowing the smoke up towards the ceiling -

I half expected to be offered a grappa, for music to be played, for wild dancing to start - 

This would be, I thought, a bookshop Annick would have loved - 

13.13

Friday August 21 2015

Alta Acqua Libraria

Venice

The ship turns away into the night ...

I walked across San Marco - it was my last night in Venice -

The cafe orchestras were playing their honeyed music - white jacketed waiters carried silver trays of aperol spritzers - gilt mirrors in Florians reflected young Americans - 

A spellbound crowd still filled the moonlit piazza - elegant flaneurs haunted the colonnades - 

I saw myself amongst the crowd - there I was, my eyes wide, only lightly dusted with sadness - 

I felt the years like a cloak of golden feathers upon my back - 

A vast cruise liner moved across the lagoon - each of its gorgeous decks was ablaze with light -

I watched it pass, turning away into the waiting night - 

Piazza San Marco

Venice

23.30

Friday 21 August 2015

The Campo del Ghetto Nuovo ...

I'm sitting on a marble bench in the Campo del Ghetto Nuovo - 

A cool wind stirs the leaves of the gentle trees -

Tall buildings cast long shadows - most of the green shutters are closed or barely opened - 

Children play chase around a wellhead -

Americans search out the Jewish Museum - 

Across the campo, I can see the holocaust memorial - 

A scholar shuts his book - 

The hissing transport opens its mouth - 

18.00

Friday 21 August 2015

Campo del Ghetto Nuovo

Cannaregio

In the Calle Paradiso ...

I'm listening to a zither in the Ristorante ai Barbacani - 

Above my head are dark wooden beams - 

The waitress has lit a candle and placed it on my table - 

Through the opened window, I can see the milky green waters of the Rio del Mondo Novo - 

Sunburnt visitors linger on the bridge with selfie sticks - 

I'm still thinking about one of Tetsuyu Ishida's paintings - 

I went to the Biennale this morning - 

I strolled up the Riva Degli Schiavone like Jep Gambardella -

Perhaps I'd find redemption, I thought, before some mysterious installation - 

A boatman is shouting a hoarse warning call -

Last night I saw a crescent moon in the starless sky - 

20.00

Wednesday 20 August 2015

Ristorante ai Barbacani 

Calle Paradiso

Venice

Rain fell upon the Ca' Rezzonico ...

It rained whilst I looked at paintings in the Ca' Rezzonico - 

I heard thunder when I was in the ballroom - 

Invisible dancers brushed against my shirt - they were dancing to the music of sad viols -

I saw myself inside a golden mirror - 

Huge chandeliers were suspended from a painted ceiling - 

Luscious goddesses reclined upon clouds - 

Apollo held his slender muse -

Weighty raindrops fell into the Grand Canal - 

A shoal of umbrellas fillled the Calle Dei Cerchieri - 

12.00

Wednesday August 19 2015

Ca' Rezzonico 

Venice 

Lunch in Dorsoduro ...

I'm sitting at a table outside a simple eatery in the Rio Terra - 

I ordered tagliatelle from the severe waitress - 

A young black man went round the tables begging - 

You have money he said - 

Inside the eatery, languid bravos sipped expressos - 

Girls with long brown legs sashayed past, on their way to the Campo Santa Margherita - 

Cabbages were sold from a barge in the Rio San Barnaba - 

In the Academia, I saw paintings of beautiful martyrs - 

Pigeons scour the pale stones for crumbs - 

Church bells are ringing - 

12.00

Tuesday 18 August 2015

Rio Terra

Dorsoduro

Venice

At Gatwick ...

 

I'm snarfing a blueberry muffin - 

My bones are sizzling with airport electricity, my nerves are zinging wires - 

Commanding voices are echoing inside the ziggurat - 

The names of far flung cities glimmer on the screens - 

The beautiful jets fly above the leaden earth - 

I hold the St Christopher medal my mum gave me in my left hand - 

Three baristas cluster around a table, looking at an I phone - 

I put down my cappuccino, ready to explore an empire of cloud - 

16.02

Monday 17 August 2015

Gatwick Airport 

Thinking of flying to Venice ...

Tomorrow, Deo volente, I'll fly to Venice - 

The white jet will chase the moon - 

I'll look down upon ancient cities, glowing corals in a dark sea - 

I'll get a vaporetto from Marco Polo Airport to San Marco - 

A sleepy concierge will greet me after midnight - 

I'll remember the vow I made, when I lived in a world where faces turned to smoke - 

17.07

Sunday 16 August 2015

The Old School House

East Stoke

Dorset 

A revered master, A Beloved Healer, A Perfect Friend ...

Catching sight of the memorial to Sir Lauder Brunton, I thought of the portraits I'd seen in the halls of the Royal College of Surgeons, the frock coats, the beards, the dundreary whiskers, the dark cravats -

But there was no portrait here, no sombre face for me to study, no hooded gaze meeting mine - 

There were words instead for me to read - 

A revered master, a beloved healer, a perfect friend -

Later, back amongst my books, I'd look up the learned details of the life - 

For now, though, that last line was enough - 

Thursday 2 July 2015

Bowden Kirk 

The Scottish Borders 

  

Brimstone and polish ...

Dog roses lined the narrow road up from the burn - 

Grey monuments filled the kirkyard - farmers and portioners lay beneath the turf - 

We saw their names, carved with tender letters into the hard stone - 

Inside the kirk, we saw the laird's loft - here the Kerrs would sit, behind the proud coat of arms, gazing down at the congregation - 

I sat on a bench under the loft - 

Alyson read aloud the verse above my head - 

Behold the axe at the tree root, to hew doune that which brings not forth good fruit - when they are cut down, the Lord into the fire will them destroy -

I shivered, smelling brimstone as well as sweet scented polish - 

Thursday 2 July 2015

Bowden Kirk

The Scottish Borders