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10/16/2019
Floyd
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A grove in front of Avignon
On the beach of the Durance, south of Beaumont, a small forest sleeps far before the gates of Avignon, a breeze from the Gorges du Verdon blows the coolness of the gorges over the riverbed, secretly blows past the heat of southern France, steals through the valley to the blue cedars, shady, sweating their freshest fragrance leaning close together, breathing the aromas of the juicy fruits of the plantations, blood oranges and grapefruit perhaps, wetted with the shimmering spice quite lightly.
When you walk
in the early morning,
in that little wood
hidden from light:
There the valley shows
you everywhere
of fragrances transient faces:
The gorges winds fleeting glance
fruits, spices, cedar -
What the hell was that? Tucholsky! A trick too short...
Gone, blown away, never again
When you walk
in the early morning,
in that little wood
hidden from light:
There the valley shows
you everywhere
of fragrances transient faces:
The gorges winds fleeting glance
fruits, spices, cedar -
What the hell was that? Tucholsky! A trick too short...
Gone, blown away, never again
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