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.