Fields of Lavender

Lavender Fields

These fields of lavender stretch
like bolts of corduroy from where we bask
in this soleil d’été, imaginary
Theo and I. Their perfume sweet
and intoxicating, when we need not
their breath, for we are living a dream.
A breeze combs the wales this way
and that. They sway like tiny willows
to the aeolian flute come up from the sea,
that brilliant reflector of the Sun’s face
and never to be my own.

For I am heir to the darkness,
yang to shining yin of this Arles light.
I shall record my impressions of it for you,
because I shall not see you again.
I am leaving soon, dark dawn drawing me
in its charcoal-covered hands, drawing me
as a stick man of two-dimensions, drawing me
smaller and smaller as I approach
that distant vanishing point out there
on these fields of lavender.

28 thoughts on “Fields of Lavender

  1. OH
    this is wonderful!!!!! I imagine it all, like I am there! Beautiful!
    Arles? Is that the city in France? I like the symbolic Chinese reference.

  2. Pingback: #FWF Free Write Friday; Word Bank | terry1954

  3. Gorgeous, Joe!! Another of your brilliant flashes of inspiration…

    ‘They sway like tiny willows
    to the aeolian flute come up from the sea,
    that brilliant mirror of the Sun’s face
    and never to be my own.’

    *love* 🙂 xox

    • Thank you, dear Lou. You know me as well as anyone, so you understand how much I love a prompt like this. Fires off all kinds of images and connections. Thank you dear heart! 🙂 xox

    • Maybe a little bit, Kim. I thought it more of moving into and out of a dream state, with the speaker as a Van Gogh character. But, you’re right, it definitely could be a life to death image. Who knows what those little creative dudes inn my head were thinking?! Thanks, and welcome to A Thing for Words.

  4. Interesting poem. Like all good poetry the meaning unfolded as I read the words and pondered on. It wasn’t till I read the comments that I realised it was about dying. Well done.

    • In writing it, I never thought it was about dying, but it doesn’t matter what I think. I write them and leave them for each reader to draw his or her own interpretation. As long as they’re somehow moved, I’m a happy dude.

      • It’s strange how different people interpret writing (and art for that matter.) That explains why I didn’t think it was about death until I read that comment.

  5. I’m with SUzanne, I felt death in it. But that is where my mind happens to stay, unfortunately. And also, I have to confess…when I began reading I got mad. lol I was mad that I am slacking on my writing and unable to do what you do. You inspire me and make me want to grab my pen, but I cannot bring anything to life as richly as you do. SIgh ♥

    • Don’t you get angry, Miss Kellie! Here’s a secret…I was moaning about slacking my way through May. I had single-digit posts for the month. In the last week I had a big rush of “stuff” come to me. Just happy I moved off that island of stasis. BTW, the posting just before this one in the Johnny Cash story I recently sent you. Now, smile, miss. And get back to making smiles and breaking hearts. 🙂 xo

    • You don’t need to, Tony. Because it’s my dream of Provence, informed by my darkness and light. I just wrote it in a grand rush of words. No revision. BOOM! Thanks, my friend.

  6. I don’t know, I love Vincent, and I think he was mostly an optimist, even his dreary “Rain” is tinged with happiness. In the end, we all probably die too young. I really enjoyed your poem.

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