A simulacrum of wonder
In these dying eyes of mine.
If Gloria’s voice had lilted
With the altitude of wine.
The cold snaps on the pine trees
Glistening with April’s flair.
The atlas hills are coursing shivers
“J’adore les petites fleurs!”
Masked in gliding shadows,
The gruelling earth pulsates.
The yellowed leaves are dancing;
Festooned, the peace translates.
Wet bark with dusted brays, so chilled;
Soil churned, and packed asunder.
Unhinged from time; a glittered sphere
For a life becalmed, we hunger.
Well trod these paths
Of rock, silt and stoney mess,
To sustain a gentle paradise
To skybound eyes they deign, impress.
A crown atop a jumbled rock;
In its infancy, though timeless,
We come and go, dip toes and wonder
Though in a blink we are gone.