Surfacing at nine, we felt the light of day.
The sixth of seven suns played on the cobbled streets
And dabbed their tears away.
What a long watch we'd kept, our right hands clasping glass,
Our eyes afraid to part,
Our heads pressed together!

Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it awoke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know. (January 2001)

Copyright ©2002 Olivier Serrat
the watch