Friday, 5 September 2008

La Versanne, Mougins by Gordon Mason

North of seven hundred moons,
they have tended their garden

like fussing birds their nest.
The garden shrinks, the hillside

grows wilder. Pines have become
crowned draughts. Death neatly

arranged. She gathers the last
pinefall in a hand shovel.

In mulberry gown and blue socks.
Eyes silver and stained. In a hand,

crisp as an autumn leaf, he brings
her a forest flower. Moonfall

lit by a taper of birdsong. Not
a patch of voice escapes his mouth.



Gordon Mason, Scotland and Spain

1 comment:

Mark Folse said...

I like this one better than that on the first page. It takes your incredible talent to paint a scene and adds a story twist to it. Absolutely delightful.