In Provence

Tread softly, oh my love.
She, who while the season
is still young, looks longingly
at the pale blossom hung about
the trees and remembers how it
all began, those lazy days down
by the sea, painting horses in the
waves and the shattered lights
dashing through the trees. Those
spent wonder- struck days in hot
Provence, August days without
the relief of tender breeze and all
we had left was our memories so
fixed on lager, beer and wine,
because we lived and loved and
had the time. Sometimes we'd pick
a peach to eat and stroll across the
famous land to cast the seed for future
growth of fruit indeed. And we'd
stare across the fields to view the
lifting shadows we all knew. Then
we'd walk hand in hand, chere
companion, in our forever land.

The end

Cleveland Gibson