A bonny girl, and bigger than
they're used to in the dinky streets
of Venice, your progress
in a pushchair, while the passeggiata
swirled across the quays, excited
admiration - bravo
o brava? We might as well
have borne you in a palanquin
through the gesticulating throng.
More intimate, those moments when
we had St. Mark's Square to ourselves,
apart from the man who hosed it down
each morning, and the strutting pigeons
planning their day. I imagined
you taking in the mise-en-scène,
the polished marble and porphyry,
but you were watching the birdies
take off into the lustred sky.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, David Callin would be
pleased to hear them.