Venice: Opera in a Palace

At last I am back in Venice, (mentally, not physically) writing about the rest of our final day there.

Venetian attire for a football game.

After our tours and icecreams we stopped to enjoy a game of football, played by youngsters dressed for the theatre, or perhaps this is how the youth of Venice always dress for their games.

We then headed back towards the hotel and as we crossed one of many bridges I recognised the restaurant where, on my previous trip, I had

Our restaurant is on the right of this canal.

dined with my husband. He has been dead for five years so it was with some trepidation that I went back and sat at the same table, hoping for a meal as good as that previous one.

Sue rarely drinks beer, but this called for a celebration.

The ambience was the same, the waiter as

Lovers in Venice

charming as before and the food equally delicious. The view from our window was even more entertaining. In another country I’m prepared to be a people watcher and not be concerned about capturing a beautiful moment.


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Friends In My Garden: Cuddlesome Pup

He was a bundle of cuddlesome delight

when first I brought him home,

a bouncy, yappy pup

full of mischief.

He loved to entertain

performing tricks and making silly noises.

Even when I tried to teach him

to be good

to sit

be still

he’d roll around, do his stunts

wag his tail

and look at me with a goofy grin.

How could I be stern?


As he grew he gathered round

a motley sort of pack.

They trampled flowers

and dead-patched the lawn

his noisy doggy gang.


Now he’s grown

left this home

but still he comes to visit,

still makes me laugh as no other can

and wishes for me to be happy.

Into my garden he brings the funshine

to me he brings love.

Cold Hands

White sheets white gowns white faces

walls a putty-coloured grey

dreary vinyl scrubbed thin.

Disinfectant pervades the air.


Lumps on beds, wrapped like mummies

body functions monitored,

minds in zones beyond our reach.

Around them hover guardians of gadgetry

in sterile masks

adjusting tubes

connecting life support machines

to almost lifeless bodies.


Cryptic messages scribbled and hung

on boards at every bed.

This one says she’s dying.


With shaking hands I reach for hers

clasp the claw-like fingers

and remember:

dresses for a teenage Cinderella

who turned into a pumpkin

despite your efforts to catch her a prince;

Sunday roasts and several thousand casseroles,

bottling fruit and making jam.


A gardener’s hands,

no time for manicures and painted nails.

Despite hospital scrubs

a patch of green remains

from the weeds you pulled last week.


Three generations of babies

your hands have cradled.

How many knees have they patched?

Brows stroked?

Tears wiped?


Can you feel my tears on your fingers?

Are you still here or have you already gone?

Mum, your hands are so cold.