PHOTO POETRY | Jonathan Shayfer

There are few things more sublime

than the quiet grandeur of a setting sun,

the dying stillness of a day,

breathing its last till the next dawn.

Where pungent cheese, baguettes are sold,

where old men drink cheap potent wine,

and chide each other over games of boules.

Napoleon came and went with the wind

but village life goes on...

Heaven is a camp fire.

A splash of expendable whiskey

tempts the flames to leap higher,

while the spirit of a black and white feline

appears in the furnace.

Teaser and the Fire Cat

They were just two builders on a roof,

but through the setting sun's filter,

they were so much more;

hazy, twisted spectres of light,

rock gods, dark angels even.

Lone hands.

Do they want to come in or glad to stay out?

Grasping at iron or clutching at straws?

Staring at the railings or through the railings?

The meadow opened up before me,

a Tirolean vista played out

for countless generations,

where the good Volk till the land

in God's Own Country.

Through the cascade,a father tenderly holds his son

in unworldly oblivion

of aquatic semblance,

strangely anchored by purple balloons.