Canard

The richness of tradition
embroiders the very air
as swallows execute
diurnal aerial forays
a shifting haze
melts over canelli
sun-faceted oriel windows
lean over narrow streets
dreamily recalling
nocturnal assignations
the water lapping
darkly on 
baroque splendour
decaying under the
inexorable weight
of progress where
beauty is an impediment
yet gondoliers still paddle
and their songs
swift sightseers
through the ancient gate,
crude iron foundry
lost under stone seraphim
leaning caryatids
and David's star on top
a biblic horoscope;
the ghosts of
innocent Shylocks
still lurk behind
mullioned windows
scribed into
slanted posterity.