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
Copyright © Gillian Whitman | Year Posted 2020
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