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(Along The French Coast, Early Autumn) (Poem by Wendy Howe ) Tourists have vanished with Summer. Only the ocean wind walks the beach, her voice a ferry that transports whispers from a nineteenth century day to this scalp of sand and grass parted on the left, blowing inland while sea gulls hear the pitch of girl and sculptor bickering over cracked china in their lunch basket. Something about whose fault and flaws left marking crafted perfection. His model shows a temper and like the Limoge plate, he despises how a frown can diminish the design of her porcelain face. Further down, a painter swears at his canvas hating the emptiness it offers. His inspiration adrift like the schooner floating on the tide with sails rolled up against a clear sky that seems marred by his own lack of perspective. Casually, the breeze wanders between rows of gold shrubbery and finds a young man sitting with script in hand, his shirtsleeves unbuttoned, hanging loose as arms absorb the breath of salt and shadow haunting the air, allowing him to feel the mood of characters who stayed here, who inspire him to write and listen with an actor's love for the wind. To know more about this poem, about Wendy Howe All Images & Poems (En) |
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