Streaked with a green patina of tears
accrued over years of open scrutiny
they sit not on a pedestal
in a celebrated square
but on low stools, by a leafy lakeside
walkway, leaning into each other’s spaces
her hands clasped in front seeming
to hold the secret of their bond
or its dissolution
his eyes draw down from a hand-cradled
face, perhaps not grasping
while hers attend unblinking
engaged, oblivious to the summer stream
of passing couples, walking
or cycling or wandering free.
From Augsburg we ride in convoy south
guided by maps and cryptic words
with logos and arrows discovered on posts,
pedalling down gravelly tracks
and smooth sealed cycle paths,
then onto the bounce and bob
of cobbles and stones
with one eye grounded and one
free to roam the drifting scenes.
Here we path-find beside a stumbling
grey milk river, the full flow showing
that rain preceded our spell
of bright and blue,
past hard graft stone walls
and the soft of sunflower fields,
the pink and red of window boxes.
We try to not get too hung up by
crucifixes that abound in fields and towns
and onion-topped churches with their
garish murals, beautiful and horrific,
preferring the toll of bell-clangs
that dong the hour along,
marvelling at the faith and fears of
those who built castles on rocky crags
overlooking fertile valleys
we are not the first to invade.
This was a via of empire expansion
and for us, new horizons
as we cycle past vast orchards
with regimented rows of apple trees
upright as Roman columns,
under massive granite brows that frown
on our straggled caravan
as these mountains would have towered
over foot-sore soldiers of that
ancient empire, over men who had
no coffee, ice cream or strudel,
nor green arrows on posts to guide them.
From Augsburg we ride in convoy south
guided by maps and cryptic words
with logos and arrows discovered on posts,
pedalling down gravelly tracks
and smooth sealed cycle paths,
then onto the bounce and bob
of cobbles and stones
with one eye grounded and one
free to roam the drifting scenes.
Here we path-find beside a stumbling
grey milk river, the full flow showing
that rain preceded our spell
of bright and blue,
past hard graft stone walls
and the soft of sunflower fields,
the pink and red of window boxes.
We try to not get too hung up by
crucifixes that abound in fields and towns
and onion-topped churches with their
garish murals, beautiful and horrific,
preferring the toll of bell-clangs
that dong the hour along,
marvelling at the faith and fears of
those who built castles on rocky crags
overlooking fertile valleys
that we are not the first to invade.
This was a via of empire expansion
and for us, new horizons
as we cycle past vast orchards
with regimented rows of apple trees
upright as Roman columns,
under massive granite brows that frown
on our straggled caravan
as these mountains would have towered
over foot-sore soldiers of that
ancient empire, over men who had
no coffee, ice cream or strudel,
nor green arrows on posts to guide them.