Arrivals and Departures

Arrivals and Departures

The day after our arrival, I lounge under
a pergola - formed from slim steel,
coated with a thin layer
of cerulean
matt.

Pocks of rust mar this paintwork like
liver spots on an old man's
translucent
skin.

In the far corner a potted jasmine has spread
across wires. Its small leaves, no match
for this Roussillon sun,
brown, curl,
drop.

But a vine, rooted three storeys below,
affords my body - naked, save
shorts, shades and factor
twelve - dappled
protection.

Sweat-salt stings my eyes as I tip my head,
soak up more golden bière, hope
the stress of our overnight
drive will ebb as
the drink
flows.

I reflect upon our long journey - insignificant
by Steinbeck's standard but fraught
in its own way - as I lay below
these grapes of sloth
and remember
four a.m.
when,

above a blood red horizon of brake lights,
a night sky of gendarme blue
illuminated a tangle
of steaming
metal -

a misplaced piece from the Tate Modern:

'Four Cars and a Truck'
Fate (2003)

Another incomprehensible
work from life's fickle
sculptor.