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Driving alone in the Monts de Blond
I drive alone down misty roads
where the morning’s frost still lingers
on the earth, grass, leaves unreached
by the feeble winter sun
whose fingers slowly withdraw
into the white blankness
of unmoving air.
The road bends as it climbs between
the shadowed pines and
leaping across the road
two roe deer, almost always two,
run from the shrouded trees
slowing my progress as I scan for more
to disappear again in depths of forest.
Higher the road climbs these mystic hills
higher still until the sky appears
that clear blue dry-air winter sky
full of all light but bereft of warmth.
I think of home, as I clear the misty hills,
mystic still but now illuminated
by the light of memory, of love departed,
thoughts of you beside me
almost always you beside me.
As I drive alone out of the higher ground
the frost still lingers but the feeble sun
has banished the obscuring mists
full of all light but now
bereft of warmth.
Copyright ©
Kim James
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