Mis en Scène

When the sky spreads high and gray,
the shade of a washed summer
brings me back to France
and a town I couldn't name,

where the train stops with no warning
and we feel still weary from the morning race
through Gare Lazarre, the crowded hurry.

Now this flurry of language so rapid,
our questions left unsaid.

We stream from the car,
past a river of flowers,
great bunches in gentian and red—
white as formal as a garden party—
as though someone were waiting for us to arrive!
Or waiting for cousins on the next train.

We cross, board a bus
we hope will take us to Evian.

I'd like to say there were birds,
but I know only that pale sky—
profusion of blooms,
the depth of the lake below us.