the song of autumn

The song of Autumn.


By the dried up lake a once blue painted rowing boat
lays on it side like an animal that has died of thirst and
rots under an abusive sun.

I drove across it on my scooter a trail of dust behind me,
had the lake been full I might have drowned and found
years later by amateur divers on a Sunday outing. .

“These bones are not from here they belong to one who
lived in the cold north” the coroner will weightily say,
look at his watch, lunch time, and close the case

There is whisper in the room “time for you to go home.”
Yes I will when spring comes around, I’ll drive across
Europe on my scooter, and admire the new EU wonder.

This will take long as I would like to see Rome again,
so the winter just might get north again before me (it has
a shorter way.) Think I will stay in my valley for… now.

There is, in a village called Benafim, a sunlit cemetery
on all saint’s day women put flowers on every grave;
a lovely place of peace, sotto voce and Nirvana’s wonder.