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The path meanders
among the remains of ancient walls
where soft green moss trickles
over knobbly flints.
The old sea kings watch.
They watch the steady swing of legs
skirt the mulberry, green hearts hiding darkest purple fruits. They watch the minds and bodies bob on
in the current of the path
seeking answers, seeking meaning,
on to a library by the river
where they forage among images
of leaf cutter bees and perfect pouches
meditations and miniatures
paint drips, brush strokes
goat’s milk with the gene
of a spider’s silk thread
the diary of a summer in Paris
a fragment of a friend’s past
secret until now. |
