MONT SAINT-MICHEL

A misted spectre rises
From a sea of endless sand,
A tower amidst the clouds,
Surveying the low-lying lands,
An ancient stone giant
Proudly weathering winds,
Even as storm-clouds billow
And the sky is dimmed.

The clack of shoes on cobblestones
In this famous fortress town,
Back into the fog of time
As old shops surround.
Climb uneven stairs
Amidst soaring towers,
A gasp of pure delight
As I stare out for hours

At white-washed sand flats
As far as the eye can see
Covered by a low tide
That protects in time of need.
The horizon fades away
Into a sea of darkening clouds,
And the wind bites at my skin
With a whistling sound.

A panorama of wonder
Greets my eyes here.
The world spread before my feet,
A sight my heart holds dear,
For this majestic city
Has seen centuries pass by
And countless men have visited
Or lived here and died.

An island amongst the tides
Between the sea and sky,
A grand towering fortress
Radiating might.
Its darkened stones tell stories
In its abbey and its halls,
As a symbol it will stand
For ages to come, I am sure.

[Written 27/9/16]

COMPIEGNE :: the forest

Feel the rush of wind
Tossing at my hair
As I ride through forest paths.
Watch the blur of green
On either side
As though I’ve grown wings to fly.

The road ahead
Is smooth and straight
My wheels skim like skipping stones.
Silence reigns
Save for the whispering leaves
And my wheels ticking like clocks.

Watch the dappled sunlight
Blocked by  roof of branches
That suddenly fall away and open.
A vast expanse
Of green and trees
At a long-forgotten crossroad.

Hurtling forward
Without a are
Towards a brand new horizon.
We are young
In a foreign land
And we feel invincible.

[Written 9/9/16 – most of these photos were taken on a bike, which is why they are slightly blurred]

PARIS :: my house

I live in an old attic
Beneath the roof,
Under the stars.
A winding staircase leads
To a small room
Beside a busy road,
With a view of open skies
And tree-lined avenues.

The windows are open,
The rumble of traffic
Is an unceasing melody.
The piercing afternoon sun
Fills the room that looks
A little too comfortably inhabited.
But an artist cannot be too neat
Or where would inspiration come from?

I have a new pen in hand,
A quill and ink from lovely Venice
Brought all this way just for this moment,
Just for this purpose
Of chronicling these fleeing memories
That cannot be captured by words.
But who is to stop me from trying?
How else will these memories live?

I have only just arrived
And yet it already feels as though
A lifetime has passed in the
City of love, these blue-roofed houses
Become a home, that flowing river
A welcome sight for sore eyes,
A place of crossroads, where old and new
Merge into inexplicable destiny.

My home, I know, is as far
From this place as it can be,
Across vast oceans and foreign lands
Back to white shores and golden sand,
Of a language that I dream in
With people who have known me for
Longer than I can remember
And better than I know myself.

Here we are all foreigners,
A brave facade before a lost soul
With all the time in the world
That slips through fingers like
Grains of sand.
So desperate to make the most of time,
To have the time of our lives,
Yet we do not know how.

So throw yourself headfirst, my friend,
Or retreat into friendly faces.
Rise with the moon or set with the sun,
Walk tree-lined streets in your dreams,
Visit a thousand museums,
Take a million flights,
Stutter and garble the language,
Whisper desire into the night.

This may be Paris, that renowned city,
But do not come with expectations.
City of love, but love is fickle,
City of lights, or a mirage?
This is a place of old charm
That reverberates deep in its heart.
Do not come with foreign notions of pride,
It will not serve; simply adapt.

One day when I look back,
I will not remember the minutes
Spent waiting for a bus,
The stairs climbed to reach my room,
The meals bought for a lazy lunch.
But that, my friend, is the essence of living.
Amidst grand history and art
I leave my mark.

[Written 7/9/16. The photo is the view from my window]

PRAGUE :: suspended in time

A line of pastel
Along a winding river
Snaking its way past grand castles
That rise from emerald hills
And tower over neat rows,
Winding laneways and cobblestone paths.

Ancient buildings in the golden light
Of a fair morning dawning.
That famed bridge that captured
The hearts and minds of all who
Set foot here, glowing in the sun,
its holy statues looking out

Towards the bend in the river
Where swans line up in perfect form
And boats drift lazily about.
Pink and blue and pastel green,
Old steeples and a thousand churches
Frame the waterway.

Across from that, an open square
Is bordered by clock towers and
Frescoed churches,
Showcasing statues in the expanse
Where vendors are stirring for another day
Of cloudless skies and quiet breeze.

Prague, a city suspended in time
With decadent castles still in use
And monasteries house forgotten books
In lavish rooms of gilded gold
And secret doorways, hidden rooms
That only hint at secrets.

Feel your shoes tap on cobblestone,
Watch trams sketch out their daily route,
Hear angelic voices in cathedrals
Or walk amongst stalls of
Toys and souvenirs in markets,
A city of sights, yet silent.

[Written 7/9/16]