Venice and Wokingham
Where Wokingham has charming little red
Brick houses decorated with cream stone,
Where little of old English charm has fled
Away, I find a volume on the blown
Glass gracefulness Venetian lungs have made
For centuries. Italian lips have forced
An elegance as lovely as the blade
Of scimitar the city crushed. Divorced
This market town and merchant city are
Not. One is mild like a gentleman’s suit,
The other shocking, lovely, on a par
With nothing else, its flourish absolute—
A man in understated russet tweed,
La donna no one’s beauty could exceed.
In Wokingham where charming little red
Brick houses dcorated with cream stone
Maintain the quintessential, modest tone
Of English towns, a quiet A to Zed
Of quaintest understatement, I’ve just found
A book about Venetian glass. Its grace
Is like the conquered scimitar, the lace
Burano made. The city’s charms abound,
Especially on the Grand Canal where time
(The centuries washed by waves) refuses to
Allow the loveliness to dissipate
Despite the scars, the leprosy, and grime
Venetians seem to prize in every view,
An ancient queen who will not abdicate.