Poetry, pomegranate and persimmon

Prévisible, voilà ce que je suis. Il a suffi d'un jour de lumière cristalline à la porte de février pour que des mots s'en viennent. Après des mois de silence, soudain quelques poèmes tambourinent au portillon, des poings et des pieds, dégringolant comme Bifur, Bofur, Bombur et Thorin sur le paillasson de Bilbo... mais de…

Lullaby to a garden

  To my sleeping garden this weightless lullaby a quiet outlook from a frosty window As in grey winter light the blackbird is black and the grass is revealed with the rigour of morn As the sycamore gone still inhabits the sky and homeless the grey heron flies So my patience is wantless and serene…

First frost

  Mid-November On trees finally, their October gowns of liquid amber. Morning walk - blades and veins Seized by the meticulous hand of frost Lines from which Winter shall be drawn. Slowly Slumber befalls those plants which to Summer offer Largesse of smiles and flesh. I too Am awaiting the hour When darkness boils into…