The Strangest of Corners

Walking the bridges of Venice.
No map.
More a wandering than a journey to,
of a journey from,
not exactly lost. Not exactly found.
Not the places the tourists travel,
Across canals.
Beyond the cathedrals, palaces and markets.
You walk.

The boats here are work boats
with faded paint, once bright,
now crackled and faded,
not the gondolas of post cards and posts,
rough, full of tools and ropes
and slightly rusted tools.
The canals are narrow.
Here and there a cafe with menus,
only in Italian.

You feel strangely at home.
Sometimes, when you travel. more at home
than home. Happy to be anonymous,
a student of all you see, traveling
at your own pace. Able to stop
and simply look, or stop
and simply think on the power of beauty
and how it emerges from the strangest of corners.

About this poem

About Venice, a place I write of often. A place that from day one of a week’s visit, felt more like home than home. A place I yearn to go back to. (some day I will).

About finding love, not by looking, but by wandering into it, It happens.

About finding beauty in the least expected places. It happens too, when your eyes are open.

Nothing is ever about one thing in my life.

Tom