Here we are, my child. Free up the mind
after the breezes of evening
have stopped wafting through our mutual
window. Down below, the cars
on the thoroughfare signal with horns.
My treasure. How do you sit so
still? Can you not see my eyes watering
as I think of a lost garden and time?
But perhaps you will return to the convent,
so I can stop being sad. You will
leave the morning commuters to rejoin
Pan in the weavings of trees and leaves.
Say an occasional prayer if you've the
time. A train from Bordeaux will arrive
shortly and on it the friend who will
replace you. He will sing a bright little
ditty when he sees me standing in my
traditional place on the quai. Train from
the southward, yes. The black figure
will descend and announce the end of time,
lips will be a shade of red. The last
time the mountains descended, a baptism had
taken place. They thought time would
be redeemed. Boy, will they have a big
surprise! Ladies with black veils and
red shoes will take to their beds. Maids will
have to chip in for the afternoon. Of
course, they will be rewarded accordingly
with fresh toffees and new corset laces.
But again, I shift out of time into some-
thing new. Always something new while
innovation promises to provide the
fastest replacement. The problem lies
in what to call it. Cows return
to their barn. Kittens space each other
out on the way to the nipple. My son
will tread the hot beam of the sun on
the way to the blazing hay pile. What,
ultimately, we make is a witch-headed
women on the summit at sundown.