The sun falls in sparks

over the broad, broad weir

remembering mills it turned

boats it slapped

hammers it dropped

and fish that tickled the banks

Waterfowl peep and whip and kew,

sounds carried

lazy and slow like summer afternoons

Down river,

willow wands switter

like guitarist’s hands

And lichen moons

glow in the green, slow, deep

Trout-arched, vaseline swept,

a million litres of lustre

swoop through Murano pools

smoothing surreal impressions

of herbal thatch, painted vessels

and painter’s palettes

A boat swoggles it’s submerged exhaust

fuffling the motor’s words in a late wake

that splatches earthen banks

and rocks the ducks to sleep

Across the iron-brace bridge

traffic trickles

from the palm rubbed, pollen-pattered woods

Where dripping cascades

refresh the iron-glow, moss-grow splashes…

and time slurs softly

in the flash-danced, romanced,

pub-flanked ice-cream halt

by the river