Toward Paris
by Peter Makuck
My first time on the night train
I couldn't sleep
With expectation, the lucky
Shapes of houses wrapped in dream—
Trees slowed, then creaked to a stop.
4:00 a.m. under country stars.
Lower the window: new air,
A deserted dirt road and
A peasant pedaling away,
A wand-like loaf in his hand,
Tail-light growing weak
Red in the dark, as if his work
Was to bring fresh light
To woods and fields. He did,
Keeping me there at that
Balanced blue hour even later
In the Sainte Chappelle,
The blur of the Louvre and after.
please note: photo art by M. A. Andrew
My first time on the night train
I couldn't sleep
With expectation, the lucky
Shapes of houses wrapped in dream—
Trees slowed, then creaked to a stop.
4:00 a.m. under country stars.
Lower the window: new air,
A deserted dirt road and
A peasant pedaling away,
A wand-like loaf in his hand,
Tail-light growing weak
Red in the dark, as if his work
Was to bring fresh light
To woods and fields. He did,
Keeping me there at that
Balanced blue hour even later
In the Sainte Chappelle,
The blur of the Louvre and after.
please note: photo art by M. A. Andrew
Hmmm. I couldn't sleep last night either, but it had nothing to do with expectation of nearing Paris! Great poem. One line mentions the "balanced blue hour," which reminded me of In the Blue Hour.
ReplyDeleteNot sure if the link to the album (now download only at the vendor where I purchased the cd) worked. Trying again. In the Blue Hour.
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