Maggie Butt


And we are Venice now
water lapping our thresholds
bruising marble olive green
rusting feet of iron gates
reinventing our mythologies.

Our waking sounds are medieval,
handcarts trundled over cobbles;
dusk is a violin beneath a bridge;
lullabies the slap of waves on hulls
gondolas restless at their moorings.

Let us be masked revellers: defy
crumbling stucco, exposed brick,
mould stains’ gloomy augurs;
dance away everpresent danger
skim the transparent mirrored water.