We will speak in this hour,
in a kind of weary sun,
the words will come
and they then will fall silent.
A breath at a time.
We will speak in this hour,
in a kind of weary sun,
the words will come
and they then will fall silent.
A breath at a time.
By chance
I happened to be there at the moment
when the mountain had just sheltered itself under wadded clouds
and the sky had separated itself from the sea,
although in the same shade of blue
photo : on the highway between Ottawa and Montreal
It was a question of seizing them on the go
the trees escaping on the highway
and the colours that lived behind them
In the sky of the northern seasons
in the soft light
between spring and winter
photo : flax, Matai river, Nelson
This
which arises
This
which lines
the background
This
that seeps between the branches
is also this
that seeps between the words: lightness
or some kind of hope
which goes in the heart of the river
photo : Outaouais river
when the snow became light
only remained
traces of frail flowers
hieroglyphs of the seasons
defying the storm and the winds