Tuesday, August 2, 2011

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

2 comments:

  1. 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.

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  2. Not 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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Hey, thanks for your thoughts and your time:>)