Night from her window

I am going offline again for a few days. The mail software is damaged and the computer has various issues caused mainly by old age: slowness, stiffness in the gears, fits of irritation, mood swings, refusal to cooperate, irrational hatred of certain tasks, and a tendancy to fall asleep unexpectedly. The time has come to give in to the inevitable and trade it in while there’s still some life left in the old sod. Callous maybe, but my computer has become like a vital organ. It needs to work!

I’ll leave you with this short poem, illustrated by Vincent.

A_Night_Scene_from_Arles_(Couple_under_the_cypress_trees),_1929

Moonlit trees,

night breeze rustles,

damp leaves.

Fox barks,

perfume of roses,

so strong in the darkness,

and in the velvet sky,

your face,

in pinpricks

of starlight.

Breathe the morning

From the window
I see the roofs stretch far and orange brown
To nudge the blue skyline.
I hear the morning stillness
The cool green hush that rises from the garden
Vine-hung
Waiting for the sun.
I smell cypress and pine
And the musky smell of damp earth
Of decomposing aromatic leaves.
I breathe the pale blue air
Tasting all the facets of the morning picture.
Remembering its delicate flavour
Its cool pastel tones
The gentle crooning of the turtle doves
To savour when the brash sun burns
And stirs the noisy life
Beneath the orange brown rooftiles.

Enclosed_Field_with_Rising_Sun

I know a place

Italy_by_Frank_Fox_(58)

I know a place where the roses blow
Where we’d lie and watch the clouds go by
At evening we’d listen to the linnet’s song
While the colours changed in the sunset sky.

I know a place where the river runs
Past a wild plum tree where the blackbird sings
And the dog rose perfumes the evening air
And the sky’s aflutter with swallows’ wings.

I know a place that was full of peace
Till you held my hand, told me not to cry.
Now the scent of rose and the blackbird’s song
Bring back the echo of your last goodbye.