I remember Venice:
February froze
under summer skies.
Old buildings, honey mellow,
peered, like Narcissus,
into the Grand Canal.
Carnevale crowds thronged.
In St Mark’s Square
a monstrous screen blasted
out Queen.
Saunterers
whose gorgeous costumes
and bejewelled masks,
concealed all flesh -
more mannequin than man.
Impossible to tell
saint from psychopath.
© Gill Dunstan
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