San Fruttuoso

THE DIVERS

Seasalt has rusted the ironwork trellis
at the one café. Today
the bathers are all sun-bathers
and their bodies, side by side,
hide the minute beach:
the sea is rough and the sun's
rays pierce merely fitfully
an ill-lit sky. Unvisited,
the sellers of lace and postcards
have nothing to do, and the Dorias
in their cool tombs under the cloisters
sleep out history unfleshed.
Oggi pesce spada
says the café sign, but we
shall eat no swordfish today:
...