05-21-2013, 12:36 PM
Remembering Marie-Claire
When I was ten, and the world was new,
and wonders included things that flew,
I met a girl with golden hair,
and she told me her name was Marie-Claire.
We lived that year in a trailer park:
the company rough, the landscape stark.
We played in a wreck at the side of the road,
and plighted our troth, and a kiss bestowed.
On a day when the air was hushed and dry,
a falcon soared in an azure sky;
we watched enthralled and, marvelling, knew
the miracle then of things that flew.
But the falcon paused in its gyre above,
and dropped like a stone on a brooding dove,
and time stood still as the girl ran out,
to the blare of the truck and a frenzied shout …
I’ve lived my life in the trailer park:
the company rough, the landscape stark.
And if sometimes it seems that fate’s unfair,
I remember a girl named Marie-Claire.
When I was ten, and the world was new,
and wonders included things that flew,
I met a girl with golden hair,
and she told me her name was Marie-Claire.
We lived that year in a trailer park:
the company rough, the landscape stark.
We played in a wreck at the side of the road,
and plighted our troth, and a kiss bestowed.
On a day when the air was hushed and dry,
a falcon soared in an azure sky;
we watched enthralled and, marvelling, knew
the miracle then of things that flew.
But the falcon paused in its gyre above,
and dropped like a stone on a brooding dove,
and time stood still as the girl ran out,
to the blare of the truck and a frenzied shout …
I’ve lived my life in the trailer park:
the company rough, the landscape stark.
And if sometimes it seems that fate’s unfair,
I remember a girl named Marie-Claire.
Rose-lipt maidens, lightfoot lads!