On Balaton

It was a place called Balaton,

where first I looked, and gazed upon

a gently rippled, land-bound sea,

A beauty there glanced back at me.

The wanderer I am was calm,

my nomad heart was given balm.

As glasses filled with sweet Tokaji,

I grew in knowledge, and my eye

was drawn to her, that gentle grace,

a luscious curve, a sun-kissed face.

 

From steps of history renewed,

we slowly ambled down and viewed

a throng of revelers, all alight

with wine within and torch-fire light.

Drunk and laughing, all around

and yet to me, the only sound

was not musicians nor the crowd,

surrounding us and growing loud

It was your voice, through all of this,

And lips that pursed as if to kiss.

 

Pinot Noir and Rosé flowed,

we spoke about life’s wandering road.

A storm had driven us below.

I felt a pure and simple glow.

As our companions went to rest,

I went with her, a happy guest.

But sleep took me too soon it seems,

as all I shared with her was dreams.

 

The storm had passed at morning’s light

I gazed on grace and thought of night.

I kissed her then but it was done.

She left to languor in the sun.

That moment never came again.

We toured the Balaton, and then

regret replaced that smiling gleam,

a simple end, it was dream.

 

Perhaps somewhere, somehow, again,

I’ll wander to that shore and then,

I’ll call to her and she might smile

I’ll bid her, “Visit for a while…

Bewilder me and serve me wine…

Gaze back at me with smile divine…

Unleash your storm and bare your soul…

You have no pain I can’t console…”

 

But then I think right back upon

what happened by Lake Balaton.

Some moments come then go away

for they were never meant to stay.

And if this one is such as these,

I know my nomad’s heart was pleased.

That moment came, was here, then gone,

a ripple on the Balaton.

 

Francis Stanley Pruett is a poet, thinker, lover, dreamer, nomad and madman.

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