On the island of Burano, where women,

sitting at their front doors for the light, make lace

and men fish in the lagoon, and houses

are painted the profound colours of sun and sea,

there is a family owned restaurant

Da Romano (opposite the headquarters

of the Communist Party) whose first owner

encouraged those painters rejected

for the first Biennale to hang their work

on his walls – since when artists of all kinds

have come: Miro, for example, Matisse,

Pound, Pirandello, Kubrick, De Niro;

most leaving (in addition, one hopes

to a good tip) at least their signature

in the visitors’ book. I sit where Callas

may have sat or Chaplin and eat, with awe,

a modest plate of fritto misto de mare

– octopus and prawns and scallops and squid

and whitebait dipped in semolina flour,

deep fried in olive oil.