The beautiful timbre of the local tongue
Walking through corridors saturated
In the 15th century, buildings and culture
Breathing deeply in, immersing myself
Being tortured by men with selfie sticks
Or worse, men running around the square
With prams, alongside goats, a festival
The Uffizi offered room after room
Of religious iconography. The faces all
Miserable, a life of faith wasted
I stood underneath David, looking
At a lens that was gripped
By someone more unique than all the history
On show. My love
Mark Lyth 