Lagoon Burano

Burano – there we travelled, stayed,
escaping Venice travel tours –
where tea and lemon, at hotel
was more than lodging on this isle.
We ducked the washing on the lines
hung out between the pastel shades –
and even slung over canals,
this backwater, Murano glass.

Straight blocks of plaster washed with paint,
this was the quaint, gondolaless,
abridged by humps judged meritless;
and brochure free, unknown back then.
Insipid surface mirrors brick,
burnt umber, rainbowed patchwork quilt,
those toytown streets, laced colour strips,
coordinated throughout range.

All owners, given choice of two,
maintains the spectrum of the row,
though not the span, inhabitants.
No Doge’s Palace marks the square,
or Danielli cuppa price,
Rialto or the Bridge of Sighs
grace the turgid waterways,
nor monster cruise ships clog the sink.

But here were cheap and cheerful days,
quite free of boaters in their craft,
and wind-up gramophones set aft
for would-be operetta stars.
The palette, palate, tickled pink
with seafood distant from Lagoon,
Basilica of unknown saints,
and washed sheets slapping window sills.

Published by Medusa’s Kitchen, 17th May 2024

https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2024/05/mothering-vine.html