Greenlane Poetry

Valley Mist

The Marne is high
the early bell has called a meagre congregation
from around the valley sides
part hidden by the pall of mist
now rising slowly from the upstream town
the heightening sun defines thin plumes of distant smoke
on lighter ground where mist still hangs on Nogent
while on the northern hills the vines hang down

With their long howl
away across the river morning trains
have borne their burden
in and out of Charles de Gaulle
planes steal through widening blue and fleece
of cloud drifts over different lives
over those who worked the
sulphury grapes since dawn
who take the first glass of this holy day
and count enough the melon, loaf and peace




In the Marne Valley