Along the promenade the old grandees
cast coy smiles from behind a fan of roadway
apartments now a glimpse out of folded drapes
looking down to last night’s dusting snow
Where lovers on the river path redeem
the drooping abandoned halos of early morning
an after dawn held for a precious moment
in a highlight fallen from a Caravaggio
Miles Davis is coming from a radio somewhere
early morning straddles the striated row of silenced bikes
the day has my mortality in its colder breath
each one now a pleasure card to play
On the steps the moss defines the season winter
walkers deny and brace the climb dogs under arms
I am quizzed by a cat from under a shoulder flap
its grey eyes alight on the fancy of a calling scent
Across from the piazza the receding old Belvedere wall
armadillos across the slope of the gardens
the city now scaled in front of the sun unchanged
a landscape cleft as an edge off of a fresh marble block
A bird glints from another David’s head seeking nest
slowly an old man younger than me in a jacket better than mine
from his hip unsettles it again with a burst of water
and so they go as I ache and bathe in the fallow of being
James Walton Poetry 