Sunshine, strawberries and stars

 

Remember Provence?

No shade on the rooftops;

the long hike through baking heat

to catch the train to Arles.

 

Guys with guitars

sang serenades for breakfast

as we rocked through sunflowers

and empty stations.

 

Arles, bathed in liquid gold,

burnt sienna under azure trees.

We wandered around the market-place

tasting nectarine, dripping juice, licking fingers.

 

The crumbling arena,

a hollow crown, long relinquished.

I closed my eyes and saw its ghosts

manacled in gloomy chambers.

 

Gone now, is the artist’s house,

where we took our photographs,

and fell asleep in the park

drunk on sunshine and strawberries…

 

and his bright stars hung in the night sky

around a blazing moon.

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