Alan Pearson Poetry

I was leaning on the parapet of summer
a day when falls enchantment
fast as a garment
round the feet of happiness.

I was watching the water
float the image of my face
against the lovely swaying forms
of schooner hulls,
my mind a bay of briny dreams.

See the clouds
satin chameleons of sky
slowly forming all the shapes
that beauty knows, to heal the strokes
that cut the grieving heart.

I was reflecting on the palette
of Renoir; the richness of his umber
the burntness of sienna, the parasols
and poppies of his fields.

Sweet never-pausing summer days
when flapping leaves wave
at the sun's ascent and fall,
not noting weeks and months
that age their edge with raw sienna
till they drop and float
like schooners
on water there my image was.


	May Days




	I was leaning on the parapet of summer a day when falls enchantment fast as a garment round the feet of happiness. I was watching the water float the image of my face against the lovely swaying forms of schooner hulls, my mind a bay of briny dreams. See the clouds satin chameleons of sky slowly forming all the shapes that beauty knows, to heal the strokes that cut the grieving heart. I was reflecting on the palette of Renoir; the richness of his umber the burntness of sienna, the parasols and poppies of his fields. Sweet never-pausing summer days when flapping leaves wave at the sun's ascent and fall, not noting weeks and months that age their edge with raw sienna till they drop and float like schooners on water there my image was.