Solstice Solace
(from the South of France)
It is not the paintings
etched and coloured
on ancient
rock walls,
nor autumn light on scarlet
vines row upon row,
by olive groves green as the third day,
nor the way
sun pierces the entrance
of the dolman
at winter solstice
that makes me pause,
but your arm about
my shoulder as I write, your
body still spilling joy
into my passages; dusty,
and growing old
(from the South of France)
It is not the paintings
etched and coloured
on ancient
rock walls,
nor autumn light on scarlet
vines row upon row,
by olive groves green as the third day,
nor the way
sun pierces the entrance
of the dolman
at winter solstice
that makes me pause,
but your arm about
my shoulder as I write, your
body still spilling joy
into my passages; dusty,
and growing old