Sozopol*

[Bronte]

This town is alive,
alive thanks to the houses,
that touch each other;
to the fig-tree – the ripe one,
the growing one,
the giving one.
A strange town of the sharp streets
of ancient men (the men are absent).
Where are thy men?
The wind tore out of the wave
reflections of an autumn sun
and hurled them behind the horizon of white
lines…
The boats belong to the sea.

This town lives …
The houses – ripe figs –
the juices exchange.

Once in a blue moon
when the slant of my mind is just right
I come across a work that pleases me
This poem pleases me because it can be any town
at any time in any country men have trod
the fact the narrator is speaking of houses not homes
says it all; that life in all its forms can still radiate
from structures to any eye that looks its way.
And immediately we smelt the salt in line ten
as the wind escaped the wave. ( what imagery !)
a smart well thought out poem that far from looking
as if it has been worked over time, brings with it a feeling
of fresh keen awareness that the N is looking at it as he writes,

send it out, find this a home ASAP well done whoever you are!

"claps" that is my first impression on my first read through.

I don't want to read it twice this time just in case!!