Wednesday, January 22, 2014

VENICE, CAMPO SAN NICOLO' DEI MENDICOLI.


A warm winter Sunday.
Breaths in almost
suspended droplets.
Muffled silence by the church,
the Sunday silence of dampened steps,
air testing its own hazy indulgence.
I sweat after the walk. Sirocco fills me.
The swollen sky’s cheeks.
Here the city ended once,
stretched in front there was only
the lagoon expanse
in patches of sandbars.
Bare flatness
and flourishes of ripples.
And oars dipping in
and the boats’ wood whining
in the clouds maybe more than now
slow, big and palpable.
In silver grey
just after the rain.
Something merging
with the spreading forth
of a birth, the utterly strange
and the utterly familiar.

And now I know
I could perspire myself
into what’s next.

3 comments:

Lady Lilith said...

Very nice poem. I am am almost missing the warm summer days.

Crafty Green Poet said...

very atmospheric poem

A Cuban In London said...

"And now I know
I could perspire myself
into what’s next."

Beautiful and touching.

Greetings from London.