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Bien Aimee

As the nib sips the ink
as the pen touches the page
she waits, hidden in the fiber of the paper
like a washing powder advertisement
she takes my hand and leads me in

Thick strands of time move aside for us
as we step backwards
further into the entrancing mesh
past a cuckoo clock,
someone burning toast,
the click of a brown radiogram turning on
and four captivating youngsters
singing again and again
’I have to admit it’s getting better
getting better every day’.


Green days in the park float by
a dog barks at the ducks in the pond
and runs away
I look at her face, indistinct in the trees
follow her into the little house on the hill
smell soft leather and eau de cologne
as she takes off her gloves, dons an apron
and begins to prepare the evening meal


We did not speak enough, mother and I
before they took her away to that white sterile place
smelling of antiseptic and death
picture postcards are mainly what remain
to map her journey through my heart


Now there she is again
standing on a cliff
young, barefoot, wind in her hair
and underneath an inscription
in a girlish script
yet fondly recognizable as her own…

’Bien Aimee’

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© Johnmichael Simon



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