Nights of white satin
rock, joint, inner, sight, sail
Standing on a rock, alone, he lost sight of her shadow.
Gone the tenuous line, the light joint in their inner lives,
dissolved, her face less and less recognisable,
a sail soon disappeared in the
immensity of his despair.
Image: Orpheus, by Pierre Amedee Marcel-Beronneau, source
charcoal, shade, pale, wake, lucid
The rain fell, almost silent, but she could hear the little stream, outside, through the open window. She called the instant the lucid wake: those minutes before the first signs of the pale dawn. Then, everything is clear, the events of the past days in sharp relief, as if lit from inside. His smile, the fire on the beach, the shade under the pine trees, the smell of charcoal. But this wasn’t yesterday, it was years ago, her already distant past. And then it had been Summer…
Then the wine had tasted better, the air cleaner, the waves softer. His skin was like the sun itself. Where was he now? The lucid wake: she was alone, all fires long dead.
She could hear the little stream. Winter would end, another Spring would come.
Image source: https://wallpapersafari.com/winter-beach-scenes-wallpaper/
tremble – hit – desire – alter – depth
The fragile leaf trembles in the cold winds,
its desire for warmth altered
to fear in the depth of winter,
soon the cruel ice will hit
its feeble skin…
Image source: https://pxhere.com/en/photo/1198169
A late dream,
Don’t I know what to expect!
The storm must have woken me,
And you, dear angel,
Are still fast asleep…
Yet I know: the Enemy and his minions strike before dawn,
Hiding their hideous shapes
Behind the windows’ frames…
I wrap myself in your gown,
And swear at them.
Picture: from this fantastic site: http://darkdreams.centerblog.net/1396-les-nagas
The thin line
between light and dawn:
the thrill of knowing,
that time
will heal
our despair.
Away from this stage,
is another test –
another round,
where force plays no role,
but the changing face,
the soft verses,
of an everlasting poem…
Photo: Jardins du Luxembourg, Paris, ©2013 Honoré Dupuis
We lie on the meadow, a mid-summer dream,
High above the woods, a large bird soars to the deep blue sky:
we have seen the mark, the proof that she was there,
among us, our dearest ghost…
Photo: Medway valley, ©2014 Honoré Dupuis
There you stand,
the only one of your kind left,
Feet wet, maybe,
but your crown dried out – as if your part
was to play,
the dead tree on the island;
a sad note on the emerald lake.
Photo: tree trunk on Liepnitzersee Insel, ©2018 Honoré Dupuis
,_Munchmuseet.jpg)
This was the part he disliked, a role torn from his past, somewhere, far back, as if a trap was slowly closing, as if a fuse was slowly burning…
Picture: Edvard Munch, Vampyr, 1893 – source Wikimedia Commons
They were aware of a change in sounds, of different scents in the air. Though they knew they were still in the same bond with the City, they did not know, now, when now was.
People walked past them, without seeing them, as if they themselves had become invisible, in a magic circle, as if they had survived a Shift in Time.
Picture: Sans Souci, Potsdam, Schlosse Nacht – ©2015 Honoré Dupuis
