Sunday drive

wheels rushing over pavement
stop in two languages
at the house on the high hill
in a wood awakening
from wintersleep

take the river road
cross the steel once, twice
see how the real ice has melted
from the banks where the red and white
treasure is kept

gather the loaves and the small fruits of the vine
hoard the smiles sold to lovers linked by hand
bench-perched
backs to the sun
lithe shadows cast long before them
and the water as their witness

past the the pastures where
iron horses graze by moonlight
beyond the red bridge covered
by the small magic of children
lies a house where music could live
in sun-soaked staccato bursts

(you can jump)
(it's deep enough)
(but you have to swim against the current)

and now the music of traded glances
sung across a crowded table
voices weave like cats through legs
nimble fingers strum strings
sleekly, sweetly like iced cream
savoured slowly in the dark

wheels rushing over pavement
winding westward with
twilight in gentle pursuit
happiness is hand-fed
on the road home.