To Gordes, France: A Cadralor Poem
Listen, and you’ll hear the chiselled skin
of buildings. Tight as a drum. Pick up
a stick, and beat out a long ago rhythm.
Listen to moonlight, it’s silver to dream.
Meadows of sky stirred by a stick. Those
old things, those wild things on the move.
Listen to the slow lines of quieting age.
See girls in white. Serene. Pink-cheeked.
Summer, bright as July, and dry as a stick.
Listen to the rigid faces behind windows.
Eyes behind their questions. Easy smiles
grown from seed. Sticks toasted in the sun.
Listen to grass growing in shadows. Earth,
air and water growing loud in your dreams.
Beat your drum with that stick in your hand.
A Cadralor poem inspired by Linda Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday word “stick”. AI Digital Artwork is my own, created using AI Midjourney. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023. Gordes, France, information.
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