The water is silent as it moves through the canal,
more tide than current.
You can see dust motes flow by.
It is not a tourist spot.
There are old bricks, stone steps and shuttered windows.
An old boat with chipped and faded paint is tied
to a rusted iron ring.
It is not a tourist spot. No one famous lived here.
You have sat on this same stone since mid-morning
and you are not at all certain
anyone lives here. It is still except for
the flow of water.
It is not a tourist spot, yet it sings to you
as much as any cathedral, sunlight and water,
brick and stone and hope. An improbable city
once great, still miraculous.
more than once,
what the flatlanders thought as the first Venetians
began to build out in the lagoon, What madness!
And yet, build they did.
You sit and savor. A boring thing for some,
the tourists in particular, hours in the same spot,
content to watch the sun move, the light change,
the tide rise and fall, rejoicing in the intuition of madmen
who persisted, who trusted their belief,
and built this magic that sings to you.
Even in the distance of time and geography,
it is never far
About this poem
This one started as a poem about my own intuition, and how others for a time, convinced me to lose my faith it it, and the terrible consequences of that loss of faith. Nowadays, my intuition is a slower thing, but I have finally come to trust it again. A costly journey with a good result.
Don’t ask me how it turned into a poem about Venice. Except that Venice is never far from my mind.
Be well, Travel wisely. Trust your intuition.