Seized by the clouds

Across the swaying yellow fields,
Vincent is startled by the stunted olive trees
That stretch outwards, upwards
Buffeted by the West wind,
Yearning to seize
The scudding restless clouds.

How they envy their lone companion:
A cypress standing apart, alert,
Such strength in its dark purpose,
While they are chained to their parched quest.

How short the spooned-out time Vincent has left
To trap this pointless struggle, while the wheat-heads
Shift and hiss their ripe displeasure
At his presence.

They are vipers.

Last night, he dreamt
That his thighs, suddenly muscular,
Propelled him upwards, effortless,
To perch upon the cumulus and cirrus,
And then he awoke in sadness,
Unkempt, imprisoned, his head tolling
Like a cracked church bell.

That seductive memory will not leave.

Vipers are curled beneath his feet.

So now, with
Mustard stained fingers,
He stabs at the canvas again, again, again,
His sword a coarse hog hair paintbrush.
He shivers with desire, for another absinthe,
For someone to ease his lone journey
Of escape, to join him behind the lowering sky.

The olive trees, the cypress, all murmur
That Vincent, whimpering,
Will never see them flower,
That his trembling torment
Will never be grasped and set aside by
The fleeting, fleeing clouds.

The vipers strike.

℘℘℘℘

David Allard is a London‑based writer enjoying retirement while continuing a lifelong engagement with the written word. His work includes numerous poems and short stories published over several decades, as well as a crime novel, The Last Resort, released under the pseudonym David Strauss.