dust with-in sunbeams dancing
sunbathed and honey suckled
sunhats and fresh market jargon
rough hands passing old Francs
with a familiar touching
tongues loose with laughing vowels
the language of love
that’s found in the joy of living
laughter is the tone
and crinkled smiles the sound
yellow is the colour of my dreams
in the morning
when sweet musk still hangs on the dew
of a wavering colloquial afternoon
filled with honey drizzled bread
wheat crunched and goat tanged
savory tea
and the off key singing
of my heart
of my heart
it beats only for home
the one which I wasn’t born –
but fell – into
out of
a reverie
I know this place exists
somewhere
outside of myself
and I will find myself in it
once more
one day
La Belle Provence
