From where I sit
the plane tree leaves hang heavy,
black splintered shards,
a jagged frame against a dazzling
world of blue;
the fruits hang round and ripe as
shot,
hesitating, waiting for the moment
of release.
The shallow boats, moored,
motionless,
spread their prows wide in
welcome,
carpeted with peace and offering
up the sun.
Slow black eyes look deep,
and lovers touch the tinkling
glasses,
the sweet amber dreams;
sparrows flutter over sugared
crumbs
from powdery meringues;
and ribbed grey cats
curl in dusty grasses,
filled with drowsy heat...
Sharp waves wash in,
plunge among the boats;
they tug and strain, uneasy
as the six warships pass
on the very edge of sight.
I wish the leaves had been a
little lower,
the fruit less ripe.
(August,
1990)
