Visiting Florence

by Brian Wake

Across a crowded bridge the motorbikes
stampede. A siren shrieks stop thief
and stolen prints are floating on the river.
Like frenzied rats, the rumours of a handgun
scuttle through the market place, and the
police are clearing space along the street.

Inside the gallery, a sculptured sentry guards
the precious works of art, a holster angled
for the instant draw. In silver palaces along the river
bank the doors are closed, the heavy gates
are locked, the shutters drawn, all treasures put away.

The sun has set behind the Grand Hotel and waterfalls
of golden lamplight spill from every balcony.
The jewellers on the bridge are stuffing diamonds
into haversacks; and on the wall a young man plucks
a mandolin for coins.