#bicycle #italy #sea #seaside
After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you
When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,
While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.
Quite a sight to behold: a woman of sun, reclining on the grass, in a meadow, abundantly recumbent, hair and limbs lush with heat
Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea
As I awakened to this morning, eyes still closed, I was thinking of you, long-gone Mom and Dad,
Maybe, like Marcel, Monsieur Proust, in Paris, it begins with a bite of a madeleine.
Red lights flaring like Roman candles at empty intersections. Headlights wanding like blind men’s sticks
The tender new leaves of the trees, emergently green. The white feathers of the wading egret.
It’s an early Spring morning of bellsong and birdsong, sunsong
Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off
My body. Outstretched. On a deck. Between the Sky and the Earth.
Once cloud-high mountains, shaped and worn from hundreds of millions of rainfalls, windfalls, frosts. Rounded now
To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,
Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air