St. Mark’s Square, Venice

I am dressed,
like the city,
for yesterday’s weather.
In linen and cotton,
a blouse without sleeves.
Admiring man’s mastery of marble and marsh,
a string quartet,
floats a tune on the breeze.

Then timpani,
tremulous,
glass at the edges.
An old master paints as the air whips full.
Clouds burnt umber,
cracked by light,
as mother nature descends to rule.

An ill-timed apocalypse
drowns out my cries
and the band plays on
as the waters rise.