Red sun sinks into lagoon
Pale moon rises
Venice at sunset.
Silver track of moon
Mingles with trembling sodium glow
Night waters lap.
Cultivating chi
With view of San Marco
How wonderful!
Red ant crawls on foot
But does not bite
Reed warblers chirp.
Black swift nests
On Laundromat strip light
Cleverly luring her prey.
Red moon rises
Round over lagoon
Arrivederci, Venezia.
Neptune honoured you
Buxom mother Venezia
With riches you could not imagine
Cornucopia of crude
The dubious blessing
Of oilrigs and refineries.
Juno showers down on you
The wealth of nations
Dollars, pounds, yen
Flow into your coffers
Price of your once-proud soul.
Ibrahim, Ishmael and Ali
Sell fake Gucci bags
Outside Venetian Institute.
Pigeons peck for crumbs
Amid litter and cigarette butts
How are the mighty fallen!
You won the Battle of Lepanto
But lost the war with Mammon
Charging pilgrims for darshan
Of San Marco's tomb.
At last, out on the lagoon
I found your heart and essence
More ancient that Doge
Or Serenissima Republica
No armour, no velvet capes
No trompe d'oeil panels
A tower rising above tranquil fields
A simple Byzantine apse
Where Theotokos rises
Above us in gold mosaic.
She is the mother, the sea
You the bambino
Cradled in her arms
A jewel to delight the world.
Created in a factory in France
For the Russian market
You were shipped to Bessarabia
Where Bubbas and Zeders admired
Your shiny brass, your wall of glass
Your spinning cogwheels
And your French cachet.
You marked their days and weeks
The lighting of the samovar
Kindling of Sabbath candles.
When Abraham journeyed to a distant land
You traveled with him
Took your place on a Whitechapel mantel.
Your tick tock lulled the births
Of Mark, David, Annie, Isaaac, Phil,
And little Minnie,
Told the times for shul and bar mitzvah.
You showed the midnight hour
When Phil eloped
With sweet sixteen Polish Perel.
Like many an immigrant
You moved on to the suburbs
And when at last the patriarch closed his eyes
And sons in sequence chose a keepsake--
One the silver samovar
Another the Sabbath candlesticks--
You were left to Philip
A permanent reminder of his junior status.
Abraham, Isaac, Grandpa
Have passed away long since,
You still keep perfect time
On an Ipswich dresser
Marking days and weeks
As you always did.
One day your hands will spin back seven hours
And Sabbath lights will sparkle on your brass
In Turtle Island.
For years I have tried to capture you
Diligently planting hollyhocks and foxgloves
In the land of tallgrass prairie
To battle searing heat
And late May snowstorms.
Your glorious profusion
Belongs to the drizzle, the pheasant
The salty estuary tang
The wheeling seagull,
Your colours vibrant
Against grey June sky.
Black bumblebee dives deep
In digitalis cave
Raindrops quiver on crimson, yellow,
Pink, peach, ivory tea roses
Tangled with magenta peonies
And scarlet field poppies
Against a dizzying backdrop
Of white hollyhock spires
And delphiniums at budbreak.
Wood pigeon cries
"You can't go a-fishin' "
Song thrush and warblers sing
Wind rustles beech and chestnut--
These no photograph can show.
Garden, in the home of prickly pear and yucca,
I will remember you!
