The Girl with Smoke Blue Eyes. (In the countryside near Kehl am Rhein).

It is the voices of bees I dream every night
While I think of my old home by the Rhine.
The voices of bees in the drowsy air
Accompanying our walk along the dyke
That in places is higher than the neat farm houses,
The silvery windows of Lutheran churches.

It is the voices of bees in the dank chill wood
Where we kissed in secret among the echoes
Of ancient gods and arrogant Nazis,
Of cannibal witches and inconceivable wars.
We kissed in secret, out of sight of the paths
Crowded with chattering Sunday hikers.

The bitter sweet taste of rye bread and honey
Stung my tongue as your lips touched mine.
Your smoke blue eyes were full of questions
I could not answer, even though I tried.
An invisible sword marked a barrier between us
As though between sleeping knight and maiden.

But this sword was our dread of the cruelties of time
Not a faded shadow of myth and legend.
We knew that I soon had to pack my suitcase
And take the train and boat to England.
My fellow islanders had turned their backs on Europe
And so I could no longer hope or remain,

Remain with my girl with the smoke blue eyes
Who walked with me quietly by the wide river
Watching the wild swans guiding their cygnets
Between the miniature offshore islets;
Walked with me quietly upon the tall dyke
Entranced by the voices of wild woodland bees.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 21st. 2018.