The Bells Of Amiens Poem by John Lars Zwerenz

THE BELLS OF AMIENS

Cold rain descends like mystic rhyme
On the rustic, old town, forming a stream.
Over cobblestone streets where lamplights gleam,
Tall lindens hover as church bells chime.

I wander as a sailor through slender, amber reeds,
Clad in a pea coat, raven and worn.
The dusk had died, and the night is born.
My stanzas, they pine. My spirit, it bleeds.

In a barn I stay, where the breeze exhales
The scent of mignonettes which mingle with the moon,
Fermenting potent liquors, of a summery boon.
The hour has come for witches' tales.

Now that my lover has gone far away
The stars which dance in the arched, nocturnal hues
Carry my psyche to Parisian avenues
Where we first embraced in the gilded day.

JOHN LARS ZWERENZ