it’s summer; Sunday morning. And a scene
from distant boyhood suddenly is there:
I lie in grass, rose petals everywhere
around me – yellow, pink and white in sheen;
my mother plays the piano, the last notes
of Gounod’s Faust. Its strings I sensed vibrating,
as if within me, then reverberating
all the way up my chest and to my throat.
At which I wept and wept, till mother came,
stroked and kissed me and took me in her arms,
and, happy, I gave her the fondest name. –
I see roses. I’m grey. The memory’s still
vibrating in my throat, as if I trill
the words: ‘Anges des cieux, portez mon âme’.
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