Cimetiere du Mont Gargan, Rouen, France

Good Eve of the Eve to all:  I finished a second poem of my journey through France.  It warms me deeply to share this with any of you who take the time to read it a couple of times.  Slowing first, let it find it's way into you as it came from me; slowly over time.  Then, try it outloud slower yet.  See if you can feel my joy in it.  Good luck with the few French phrases I had come from that day in Rouen, France.  I'm better at them now than I was that day.  And yes, if it seems long at first, realize the time it took for this poem to come to life after leaving France in the belly of my ancestors.  They left in boats between 1630-1650 and if they hadn't I wonder where I'd be today.  I traveled to France in August 2013 and this poem was delivered on the date below after many attempts of course.  Cheers.
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Cimetiere du Mont Gargan, Rouen, France

It is late afternoon in Rouen, France,

The day feels right draining toward darkness.

I am resting from a climb.

A rock bench holds me

Tired legs and lungs throb less and less.

This place is silent.

Beyond the mason’s crypt-work

Over the brick and mortared walls

The City of Rouen chugs and rattles and roars

 To end another day.

The cemetery is walled in on a Height of Land.

There is higher ground looking east.

The Valley of the Seine;

Deeply carved, sinuous and lethargic.

St. Paul’s Catholic Church

Waits outside the gate I entered below this rest.

Cimetiere du Mont Gargan.

The sun light lengthens across

The face of this time and war-torn river town.

City facades blush in the lengthening rays.

And the traffic below aims for home on  Rocade Nord-Est.

Roused from my water-color dusk-time day-dream

The slap, slap, slap of leather soles approaching

On the paved central lane

Connecting the iron gates and archways-

Those bookends to the stories buried in that tended ground.

The gatekeeper, I could tell

Her lithe hands carried wrought keys

Dangling on a solid metallic ring.

Stopping before me,

She asked a foreign question of a weary foreigner.

“Bonjour.  Comment ce va?”

So basic, I could reply.

“I’m fine.  How are you?, Oh, impropriety…

Pardon moi!.  Tres bien.  Et vous?”

“Parfait, merci.”

From the cold stone bench

Upon this somber high place

Where chiseled names seemed suddenly aware

We talked in bursts beyond the words

Our minds could barely decipher.

Smiling often and warmly

Knowing we would not fully understand

I sensed a curiosity in her smile.

It warmed me as a surprise, a gift

For our unlikely meeting there.

She sensed I had come from far away

That this burial place held

Some centuries of interest to me.

“Ancestors!” 

“Oui?”

Her face realizing we may have commonality.

Our eyes engaged in mystery.

Hers dark as the buried lives

Beneath our babbled conversation.

Mine holding the last blue of day.

Rouen and lips in rouge fitting my delight.

We were hostages of our words,

Hearts of offset rhythms.

Her soul deep eyes drained the light from mine

Until she smiled again and set me free.

Kindness reached out and touched me

I worried only desire waxing from my soul.

She did not retreat from our concord though.

We talked on beyond the labored words

Until she smiled, understanding.

I had come to thank my ancestors

Her smile was confirmation;

She knew my ‘raison d’etre la’

Why I had portaged "a travers la mer":

My “Merci boucoup”

To those who, left Rouen

To build a New France,

Who gave my life a chance.

We fell silent then,

To let the moment be.

My story a mystery no more.

Then coolness interrupted

The momentary din between

A gatekeeper and I,

Children of the 400 years.

One last smile and “Bon soir”,

Keys jangling again by her side
Those black leather shoes carrying her away

To tend a distant gate.

“Au revoir” my echo, as I turned the other way.

In dun light, sky a purple haze,

Downhill past the open weathered gate

I shuffled, no more a stranger here.

Behind me now, that sacred place

Harboring the darkened familiar names

Chiseled on silently settling stones.

My ancestors satisfied once more

Within the maiden’s tended gates.

Those honorably spoken stone held names

Familiar to the eyes of two lives today;

Our ancestors wait another forever

To touch the light again.

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Ron Crete
29 December 2013