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Christopher Vale Poem
Our thoughts, like the sea with its white pebbles,
painted by its foam.
The waves come little by little, to halt them.
There, I see Greece.
Beneath the clouds that hide the sun,
its furrows moving back and forth like visitors.
They were forgotten on a pale islet at the horizon, where the gaze can reach.
In a small glass of red wine and a slice of bread,
behind the cornfields.
There, I see Greece.
In my grandparents’ house I left my memories in the yard,
in the scent of Sunday lunch.
Copyright © Christopher Vale | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Christopher Vale Poem
The trees, though still, are speaking in the breeze.
Quiet words flying upon the fallen leaves.
Yesterday children running in the park.
Now windows closed, gazing sparrows on branch.
Heavy jacket, a scarf, my company.
Loneliness around, empty silence.
Cold but peaceful wind blowing on my hair,
hissing like a warm bullet, not fair!
On the walls, of distant towns, only holes.
Sparrows searching for coal in the flames.
Ever producing factory that drops.
Maybe the cold is better, my town!
Some have put on the black army boots,
others, are reading at a warm cozy corner.
Stories about peaceful times honey.
When they go down who’s going for money?
Copyright © Christopher Vale | Year Posted 2025
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