There’s a man beneath my window
I can smell his drunken halo.
On warm winds in the evening
I can sense his stale sweet breath.
Small birds gather round him
For the crumbs dropped from his beard.
He exhales only memories
He’s the end of the summer feast.
It’s the vine my neighbour used to keep
Before he passed away,
The fruit that I can never reach
It ferments before its time.
I thought the the season was good this year,
The winter barely came.
But the grapes are small and bitter
I will not risk the climb.
As I sit beside my window to
Catch the last of the summer air,
The drunk who dreams the seasons
Reminds me he’s still there.
This is another experiment adding sound to my blog. The poem, the music and the photos were all made today. Alas, I cannot convey to you the scent….. it smells like last night’s wine glasses.