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Annecy
Like a soothing balm, Annecy cools my
Soul. And even as October calls us
Forward: I feel pleasure, inertia. Try,
Essayes, to do nothing before the bus.
Because right now contentment beckons me;
Yet far too fleeting to be real,
Yet far too fleeting to be staid.
Contentment is the numbest pleasure paid.
Lake Annecy punches that numbness home,
A numbness of chilling frission to the bone
Carried on kilometre-long sheet glass
That under hot alchemy turns to brass.
These endless September days balanced on
A ridge.
Perhaps that should be day, for work again
Belies my tomorrows. I don’t agree
With morning frost.
But basilican marble projects
The power and the glory down below,
Where lazy swans bob through lazy waterways,
Tipping under leaf-sliced light, a lazy glaze.
That google-style expands exponentially
And encompasses the lake entire.
A dash of turquoise on the artist’s landscape scene.
A picture is a thousand words; more to be had
From here.
