Laying at the end of the pier
The flat grey Adriatic languid and gentle
Seabourn mystery leaving maritima stazione. Tug leading the way.
Where larger vessels once toured their crafts
nipped by ant. No questions asked.
Off Nina went to rendezvous at 3.
I walked along the shoreline. Many boats lay at anchor and I think of the painting created by carvachio??? and turner of Verona and Venice and Naples. But not of Flemish lands. A millimetre of land between sky and sea. Head on shoe for comfort.
Oh my rib is aches and my jaw still restricts my diet.
Boys fishing and girls parsolled but not Austen.
But I feel slowly falling into dreams.
Passed the Augustus gate and out of the city.
Stood at the door PAM. But it will not open. This is the entrance, not the exit. Fool. Italiano is not my mother Tongue.