Lavender fields

I remember the back seats and the heat.
The drought
             that tinkles
through our teeth tattered with sweets.

                          We drive past fields of periwinkle, rows of tenderness
             softer than the sun.
The clouds made of bees,
                                       they never stop
                                                    going. Like in the film

I could only remember
                          by its protagonist’s name—
             any language a challenge beyond
this twilight of sunflowers—

I hold the memories tight in my hands, claim
             them as mine
             though all I know of are the colours.
The bouquet of flowers falls in pieces as she moves.

                          The scent
             of southern France hidden underneath my pillows
while my dreams             hurtle             past bath houses,
                                       I hear the hooves

of horses. They run wild. I want
             to imagine the world
my perfect dream.
                          The villages drown,

I remain a stray in the attics. The floods are rising,
houses under water. The fields of lavender howl.