Perignon

 

Bush-light shadowed footsteps

through seamless, speechless

desert places,

followed as we trod slipping sandhills,

the sibilant, curling wind

twisting lips around;

 

lay black,

motionless,

pinned by envy like butterflies

on grey trays of jejune absolution:

tired eyes traced satellites in sun-fires,

as sirens whooped in our memories

and night mouths consumed us.

 

I am God's servant of the Champagnois

and drink the stars,

and am a sinner in His eyes

 

(who makes the Devil's liquor

to the glory of the Lord

must live at Heaven's hearth

with feet of earth.)

 

Many years ago we found the Abbaye

- dream-like in our minds -

that showed us the fire nights

could burn the cassocks from our backs,

 

and wanted little to deny our rage as,

tramping on, we approached eternity,

walking the track that leads from the grave.

 

Chris Hubbard

Reims

2016