colour

Quay of Neva

    I was born and grew up in the Baltic marshland
  by zinc-gray breakers that always marched on
  in twos. Hence all rhymes, hence that wan flat voice
  that ripples between them like hair still moist,
  if it ripples at all. Propped on a pallid elbow,
  the helix picks out of them no sea rumble
  but a clap of canvas, of shutters, of hands, a kettle
  on the burner, boiling - lastly, the seagull's metal
  cry. What keeps hearts from falseness in this flat region
  is that there is nowhere to hide and plenty of room for vision.
  Only sounds needs echo and dreads its lack.
  A glance is accustomed to no glance back.
                                                  Joseph Brodsky

Brodsky constantly recollected Petersburg in the poems, to me each time as I happen in Petersburg Brodsky is recollected.

The next trip has been connected with business trip in a city Pushkin, the former Imperial village, but it is possible to tell that the trip was to Petersburg.

Petersburg as always is beautiful – varies nothing, majestic palaces and the Peter and Paul Fortress.