On the Avenue
I'm on the avenue.
On the left a house –
at the corner above -
figures of stone,
on the right – a bookstore...
A book. Yours! I'm glad.
Not seen you for ages!
I leaf it over, reading intently –
You bury yourself in a verse.
An image arises.
Time bygone,
Eternity come
beckons a poet
in marble and lines –
as a book on a shelf
not as a needle in the haystack –
hide-and-seek:
into pages to merge into rhymes
from petty sum, from cruel fate.
Poetry – element.
News is reproach –
a lump in the throat.
The house at the corner,
up on the right –
a woman of stone
and two children.
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