Watching the ivy tendrils slowly climb
A glass of table wine within his hand
Windows blowing lace and shuttered blinds
He dreams of burning her with love’s hot brand

Alone on second floor above the stair
A lake of dreams too deep to hold him up
Where purple rose clematis scents the air
He sips from crystal etched and half full cup

In stuccoed walls with mother’s hearth sun clean
The ships a cobbled town that he calls home
French music plays, and no one there is mean
Yet fated is his lot to walk alone

And night the starry cap that twinkles bright
A muse like heavy hair that pours on him
He’ll walk with soggy dogs within his sight
And quiet like the sound of dropping pins

But still, and she will hear him softly call
Her loneliness as desperate as his own
Beckoning like a pale ghost wind mistral
And climb the needs of his heart's castle wall

Written by Sara Fielder © Sept 2012