(written while sitting within a tower atop the walled city of
Aigues-Mortes ["Dead Waters"], France)
Just birds and me, content to be
Alone within these walls.
The "waters dead" evoke no dread
Where ancient voices call.
Perhaps I trod in leather shod
When waters were alive,
A guard upon this bastion
With armor, sword and knife.
More likely just a wishful lust
For life of simpler ways.
No cars or planes or bullet trains
In medieval days.
Perhaps birds know that same winds blow
As for ancestors past,
And naught remains of knights or chains,
For only stone can last.