Train Station, Grimsby Docks
No smoking on this platform now
where we once dodged
through steam that spilled
from panting shunting trains
at this last stop before the pontoon and the prom.
No more excited squeals
just the sometime screech of steel
from track and wheel
and the only moaning you will hear
is that of traffic overhead
above where we, unwitting, found
litter of lonely drinkers and desperate love
in shelters rendered redundant by peace.
Red admirals court cottoneasters
and cabbage whites flirt with buddleia
serenaded by blowfly
drawn by the draught of fish
that haunts this place where cod once left
for London and for Leeds
and trippers returned to Bradford
and beyond.
Pizza Cittadella, Lucca
Pizza Cittadella, Lucca
He sits with us in bronze
and we draw our breaths in wonder
while arias filter the thermals of the streets
beside the closed museum;
traces of Tosca and Turandot wafting,
drifting to La Via Rondine
while an antique vespa chokes somewhere
dying in the soft night air.
