The wheat-field, blond as a Volga German milk maid, heat
intense and in the shade of a demanding olive tree I saw
grumpy Van Gogh, glaring at me intruding on his painting.
“Sorry for the scooter, it is electric blue and doesn’t fit in,
pretend it is a donkey free of its leather harness.”
The vines, deep green leaves and fertile soil, soon there
would be grapes, mostly dark cerulean, an army of wine
to come tempting souls into surrender… liquid pleasures;
and the narrow road snakes amongst fields like a black
mamba hunting grey rabbits in the meadow.
I have the afternoon sun in my eyes, a cooling breeze
on my back; and then I drive off the road, fall amongst
thistle and thorns and the spell is broken, look around
but only Van Gogh witnessed my disgrace.
