It was four in the afternoon, the first time I arrived.
Most of the tourists had come and gone by then
and Saint Mark’s Square ceased to bustle
and you could see the beauty of what once was,
the brickwork and just in the distance, the water.
As you sat and had a cup of cappuccino, strong and dark,
the last cruise ship pulled away.
You sat. You breathed in the place, felt its soul.
The waiter was kind, not hovering, but he knew.
“You love Venice, No?” he asked. “I do.” told him.
“I have never been here before, and yet
I feel I have been here all my life.”
I spent a week there. No agenda. No plan. No need
to fill the time with anything but a beautiful wandering,
a discovery of a place I had always known
and finally found.
About this poem
The painting is one of Monet’s paintings of Venice. Sometimes artists and poets capture places more accurately than photographs.