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