The foggy wood beyond my kitchen
beckons with chill fingers dripping dew;
gray mist’s obscure invitation,
to half-recalled memories of you.
Half-naked, a picnic, the Bois de Boulogne –
your hand on my chest; mine, your thigh.
Desire unanswered and passion unknown;
unspeakable craving left but to sigh.
Morning fog in the woods sparks memory;
the coffee grows cold in my hand.
Passion’s rekindled, but sadly,
“Tu est un fantôme dans mon âme.”
Our last night we talked on the hillside
overlooking the Seine’s rolling march.
We shared Gauloises, we laughed, and we lied;
I dared not speak the pain in my heart.
The moment passed, the summer ended.
A beautiful sadness in your eyes –
we parted friends, or so we pretended;
“Au revoir, mon ami!” is just a pack of lies!
by C Eric Funston
11 May 2014