The Falling Clouds of Provence

Travel and memory

… in my beginning is my end…

 

I.

 

I went away, long ago, to those

Kingdoms said only to exist in

The tall-tales told by

Musty old women sitting

Sipping tea and biscuits in

Rocking chairs, pulled up beside

Roaring fires.

 

II.

 

I was young then, and though I

Feel younger now, the

Thought of certain English gardens

After a midsummer shower still

Haunt my vision, forcing me to

Stare at the flowers of parks

In the glow of their color and bloom.

 

Then there were the

Trains I rode in through the

Dark, rolling away towards those

Unshaven French women who stand

Hunched and holding Starbucks

Cups outside of the

Notre-Dame de Paris.

 

III.

 

The old women rock and rock. I

Hear the sounds through memory

And the strangeness of finding rocks

On beaches that I wandered across,

Long ago.