24 Hours

Through cobbled streets, old historic houses
     returning scents of flavoured bread and oil;
men in ties graced by the steps of spouses,
     visages wed to art modes, trades, and toil…
A rest at Federici, to savour
     some dolci, the namesake folks home-labour
and, prey to native sights smeared in fancy,
     for just a moment wished I quit it there—
vanished with ancestors pictured pasty.
     AirCanada brings us back, less the tare—
in 24 hours all ghosts turned mute—
     to a land pursued by civic ord’nance,
earth’s daily orbit, and Queen’s pence tribute…
     Were heart’s tides ever yet man’s opulence?