Sabbioneta



Cittá ideale, reached
from a guide book’s footnote,
two trains and a lazy bus
way beyond Mantua,
trusting in timetables.

Hazy light of harvest
spreading its gritty dust.
Levelled fields Virgil
would recognise; the order
of gridded streets.

Plum tomatoes, lorry-loads,
a trail of rich-red ripeness,
the day’s work done.
Who wouldn’t want to live there?

D A Prince

If you have any comments on this poem, D.A. Prince  would be pleased to hear from you.