A Dream

"I call to thee, chirr, chirr,
O sweet cicada fair!
From deep within my heart there stirs
the music of Provence’s air.

My song shall thee enchant,
shall pledge to thee my love,
so ‘neath the bark’s embrace
each dear one may their dearest prove."

Thus through thy dreams there lingers,
when noon’s fierce sun burns bright,
from the trees’ sweet, scented fingers,
the cicada’s love song’s light.

 

Dreamt during a Provence holiday, in a long siesta at forty-two degrees in the shade.