Signor Vivaldi -
tiring of soggy salt stained rugs
and endless spring tidal pools
glistening on the morning promenade -
hails a gondola, and sets his face
steadfastly towards Mestre and thence
to the warm awakening hills;
to unfolding vineyards and cypress groves
deafening, with early song bird chatter;
the hunters still sleeping off
the last of their nocturnal salutations
to the return of gentler greens
to burnt earth and crag.
In solitude, his heart's a-bubble
and his eye as keen as a marksman
eager for the first light
and coming to pasture of young milkmaids
astonished and ravishing in the crystal clear.
Every sound he captures with daring
and paints nature's resurgence
in swift strokes upon the clean and waiting stave.
Deftly he summons an ensemble
that can capture brightness, the smell of lilac,
fresh grass and melting alpine snows
blackbird, thrush and never-ending sparrow -
A treasure to be cherished for the time
when the mists of the lagoon rise to chill the spirit
and a yet unborn vintage serves as consolation,
and fiddlers fight the draught and their hearers' indifference
to keep their pitch and set the mood
bringing to liberty the immortal moment, long awaited.