Young yachts bobbing, knocking quietly on the promenade wall
Oblivious of the longing glances in their direction from holidaying hoardes
The cross of Saint Joan loom large on street corners
Tee-shirts with the emblem on sale in all flea markets.
How many thoughts can you cram into a day?
When might the reader become the book?
Distraction for him can be as simple as a dog looking for attention
Which is not really a distraction
Just a lead down another path.
A holiday Thursday
He arose early showered and breakfasted
Limbered up, to the extent the arthritis would allow
thoughts of labour buried at the bottom of a suitcase
Crossed himself said a silent prayer
Walked out into early morning sunlight and bird song
Turning the key in the door shut silence inside
Speaking to himself in monotone he stepped out counting only cobbles
Happy in his holiday world.
Busily observing the austere faces of those making their way to various work stations
getting inside someone else’s vision
The reader soon will become the book.
(c) Chris Black. June 2018
~The Poet’s Poet~