Provence

In the cool of the drink-drenched, wine-soaked night He searches the streets for a friendly doorway To hold him through his sleeping hours As he totters, stumbles, and finally collapses Onto a wooden bench placed in his path. Lying on his side He crooks the solid bulk of his sleeveless arm To form a pillow for the grizzle-grey Of his tousled head and bearded face; His barrel body hints at a former sturdiness Skin a burnished hue to match the wood he's resting on One leg supported by the seat The other dangling to the ground. Underneath are stacked his worldly goods In brightly-coloured plastic bags Together with a single lace-up shoe Stout enough to be a legacy of working days And now discarded from a painful foot. Unknown to him he sleeps beside the intersection Of a busy walkway and a major road. Not only does he dream the night away Hours later when we cross that road again Still slumber-soaked he lies there undisturbed Oblivious of traffic or the people passing by And heedless of the scorching mid-day sun That’s surely travelled with him all his life Is he nothing but a painful memory To wives and lovers, children, friends Or are there happy stories to recall? Do they speak of him with lowered voice And wonder if he’s still alive And do they hope one day to see The familiar gait Come shambling up the hill? Perhaps his son is on the tractor now Working the fields of barley or of wheat, While in the distance Sunflowers – oleander - lavender Splash their bright colours on the countryside. Maybe the lad will take his lunchtime break under the olive tree his father’s father planted long ago Close to the vineyard whose abundance Yielded a sad and broken man Product of a dire and damaging indulgence