Poems from
Scenes & Visions
by Michael Cope

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Fat Clouds

Fat clouds flying north
heading for the summerland.
(Winter coming after them
with a cold hand.)

Last night I saw the summer's queen
lying face-down in the mud.
Saddened but not crying, she
had foreign matter in her blood.

All of Europe's blood in me
twisted with a pulling wrench;
lying on the red earth she
speaks beautiful accented French.

Inside, last night the dancing still
goes on, the music still goes round:
the people from the summerland
pretend its still a tourist town.

She's made of flesh and piano-wire,
carmine varnish for her mouth).
Above us the night clouds fly
from the "Switzerland of the South."

Metaphors of Africa
(images of sweat and hate
but softened by retreating clouds)
wait for her just beyond the gate.