My way... from Gilles  Grossiord

Silence rides the cold, pouring down the rain, it fills the river basin
Backs up the waterway, spilling out the banks, to the flowing Main...

It grants---'Nothing'---'less you dream, on fresh beds of pale plumbed sky, where wintry winds
Clearly cling, to soul-soothing quiet, for solitary thinking where those idle passions sigh, with
Branched thoughts, new growth from trees, I look with wild surmise; where wings fly low to drink
Where rolling waves rise high, with beaded bubbles winking at the breath of
plumes in flight.
I catch freshness from the wings, on a bridge of golden tides, fleeting music on they sweep
Dropping gypsy lullabies.

From the gaze of centuries, full of silver moons to breathe, in the Aeolus winds of space, I see the
Gusty shadows sway, with pervasive masterpiece. Unreal shapes of twilight shades, that shiver
Tingling stars, fearful that the charm might fade, when showery drops
discharged
Falling like a weeping cloud in twenty different ways.

Mist surrounds our ankles, rises, like a deep slow river; over arches and
white domes, wrapped in
Symphonies of stone, over palaces piled high where pigeons huddle every night, peering down from
Ledges wide, with the French tricolor flag, fluttering in the wind, and the Yuletide gathers
Where the sky begins, from the south bank on the left, to the north bank on the right
Where the river splits -- divides -- two different ways of life.

The winding stream does weave, the gushig of the wave

To mound the dream -- so pure and deep -- where lazy lengths contain, in cold floods reflecting

-- The Perfect of the Seine --

Patricia Monroe Harbour

Copyright ©2002 Patricia Monroe Harbour