This Summer Flight

This summer flight over orchard
Hung with round fruit
In rain that beats upon the plain
Is nothing more than empty despair.
The streets above all else
Are grey.
                     One summer far away
This street was paced
When some cloaked rider
Flew softly past,
Whispering in the ear,
“Surely the season is come
From where you came,
And the voices of the cathedral
Still murmur above the plain
From whose broad and uncertain expanse
Came the flood tide
That washed you,A fleck of dust, to the sea.”




About the Author: New Orleanian poet E.R. Hille (1911-1991) surely thought the world was finished reading his poetry. Poydras wants to assure that never happens.