Veneto

Bassano is my birthplace where
the Dal Ponte family were born

and worked on the six paintings
I counted at the Louvre years ago:

true sketches of 16th-century folklife,
religious works; realistic as photos.

Veronese’s The Wedding Feast at Cana,
in all its majesty, hangs in the room

of the Mona Lisa; I turned around
to see Tiziano’s name, from a snowy town

at the foot of the Dolomites
to the centre of the French capital.

The Italian region is decorated
with Palladio’s villas along the rivers

while Giorgione’s Pala stands out
in Castelfranco’s church: on the throne

Mary with Jesus, her child on her lap.
My eyes admire the autumn paintings

of the UNESCO’s Prosecco Hills:
Veneto, a museum open to the world.

The Swallows

A door suddenly opens
to the sound of a turquoise sea;
shoals visible on the surface.

Waves embroider a new pattern;
seagulls drawn in the air,
a final touch from the sun.

Water sparkles through the sunlight
merging into the sand.
Winter is unknown here.

Roses splash,
crimson in the distance,
their petals clustered together.

Butterflies would also fall in love
with this kingdom where swallows
no longer need to migrate.