Venetian Serenade Poem by Alicia Patti

One would think purple and green couldn’t
work well together, unless you’re in Venice where,
tucked in at eventide, gondolas slumber in colorful
array, anticipating the new day, while the setting sun,
low on the horizon, lulls the lagoon to sleep,

lapping waves caressing, like the susurrus of
a Venetian lullaby. Royal purple tints the water,
as though The Master had dipped his brush in
Imperial Blue and with broad strokes blessed
the Grand Canal in benediction to the Medici.

But this blessing can’t last - this tribute to the gold
of Italy’s finest hour, this shimmering ideal reposing
in the dusky twilight of an age long past its glory,
hovering on the brink of a long summer day.

Too soon dawn will come clamoring, dragging
along the multitude: buyers and sellers
crashing through the pungent streets, snatching
at her life’s blood, scattering her precious jewels

like so much refuse until, at last, exhausted
and disillusioned, she folds her purple and green
into another sunset, sighs in weak submission,
and falls asleep once more to her Venetian serenade.