Season

Season end

the morning

 

scents of

crisp cold

 

days to

come.

 

Apples ripe

now summer’s

 

just a dream;

 

sun drenched

scenes,

 

supper under

August moon

 

wine & song;

back then

 

it seemed

that laughter’d

 

never end.

 

Here

cherry tree

 

has lost

her glow,

 

clouds

roll in:

 

for you

&  me

 

another year

plucks with

 

unknown

fingers

 

whispers

‘sleep’

 

autumn mist

&  memories.

 

 

 

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Journey

Valley twists

to forest

 

river fleuve

green carapace

 

silent.

 

Drop down

to Paris basin

 

fat plough

tills dry

 

soil in

late August

 

light.

 

Light coats

sward

 

beneath

huge Quixotic

 

windmills

hands held

 

to heaven.

 

Crest of the hill

falls away

 

sea beneath

‘falaise’

 

such a tongue

tied word

 

to play

with.

 

Calais,

seagulls

 

whirl & mob

begging for

 

tourist

crumbs

 

like the

camp,

 

barely glimpsed

through iron

 

fence, ring

roading ’them’

 

from ‘us’

as if

 

indifference

renders

 

invisible.

 

Sun glints

late on

 

grey green

wave:

 

I am afloat

in all of this,

 

genuflect

returning.

 

 

 

 

Dordogne August 7th

 

 

Dawn arrives,

stiff breeze,

 

growling of the

traffic

 

old olive

stands sentinel:

 

beached, as I am

by fate’s fickle

 

finger.

 

Swallow’s swoop

the pool line

 

memories

creep in

 

you & I

so young,

 

the children

at our feet.

 

Did we ever

dream of

 

this?

 

Palms wave;

the house

 

sleeps,,

 

but I,

still alive

 

leap from

tangled sleep

 

to salute

how we lived

 

& loved here.