The Vision of Saint Augustine

Carpaccio, San Giorgio degli Schiavoni, Venice You are amazed to find trees in Venice — To turn a corner into a campo Where two or three rustling acacias Spread their halo of leaves Over two or three red-slatted benches. It’s as if you had slipped through a curtained doorway Into a hall full of dull gold scenes By Carpaccio — a miraculous light — Though the rio’s still shrouded in a mist Compounded of water vapour and smog So it’s not that the sun has come out, it’s Something to do with the leaves and painting In the realm of echoes where footsteps Reverberate endlessly between two walls And dawn is the chink of a stonemason At his reparations, disembodied Voices irresistible as bird calls. Yes, you’re amazed to find trees in Venice Shedding their gold leaf onto the pavement Outside a secondhand bookstore. It’s like Carpaccio’s little white dog Wagging his tail at the feet of Saint Augustine Who is staring out of the window Looking for the voice of Saint Jerome.