September

Tell her that I loved her

for the white soul and yellow scent

of early mornings together

under the pale light of September

Tell her about the four-eyed dreams

in the roundabout of years

her smile is creeping on

a remote ivy souvenir in my memory

tell her about the low tide of loneliness

the fragile pansies in the hands of Fall

dust crawling in my heart

and her song never ending

tell her that I dwell beyond all hopes

in a far distant sky resort

listening to birds and branches

and praying in blown up cathedrals

Tell her

I shall never come back

because all clocks are wrong

when anyone is late.

Claude Lopez-Ginisty