By Colin James


Everything echos in here.
Vespers incant, thank phlox.
My cell brotherless.
The view through the stone slit
is a bit sparse.
Just make out some white cloth,
linen fluttering.
I gravitate to the winery where
we are storing more than ever
since our daily allotment was reduced
due to some off key dirgers.
The Abbot is a stickler
tense as a varicose conundrum.
South is the confessional of the moment
the sun here a conformist’s grey.
That’s my Mercedes in the arbor.
I’m off for Cannes via Elderado.


Artwork by Edgar Degas

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