In the realm of twilight

the wind is dying in the umbral night all around

the small bridge becomes  the canal’s umbrella 
weaving a shy blue garment for the waters,
a silvery gown across the imponderable blue
 
the moon glides  free, an argent shadow

the rain dove purls a plaintive lay, drenching 
the darkening streets with a drowsy kiss
in these hours of tears