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Meuse in Oktober

(after a day-trip to a Franco-Belgian region, 1995)

I leave the orchard roads of Molenbeek‑Wersbeek
with the smell of wet leaves clinging to my coat,
tyres humming along the E40,

past fields already leaning toward winter,
  past barns that seem to breathe
  at their own slow pace.

Hannut is a pause of cobbled streets,
a café window misted from the inside,
the hiss of an espresso machine,

and the soft murmur of market sellers
  blending with the smell
  of fresh bread.

Back on the road, Namur rises
like a meeting of stone and water —
the Sambre folding into the Meuse,

arched bridges like the backs of sleeping cats,
  citadel walls that seem to have carried
  their weight for centuries.

I stop for a moment on the riverbank,
watching the current carry leaves downstream
as if the Meuse were repeating the same journey.

The valley narrows.
The cliffs lean in,
their limestone faces streaked with rust and moss,

and the river carries a bronze light
  older than the towns it touches.

Dinant appears suddenly —
a church dome cradled in the rock’s palm,

the citadel watching
  with patient stone eyes.

I cross the bridge,
the Meuse passing below
like a thought
I can’t quite finish.

Lunch is bread
still warm enough
to steam my fingers,

beer the colour
  of late afternoon,

and the sound of barges
gliding past
as if they had
a gentler appointment to keep.

In the cable car,
the town falls away
into a patchwork of roofs,

and the river becomes a ribbon
  tying this day
  to other autumns
  I have carried in my heart.

In the evening
I drive north again,

headlights catching
  the edges of fallen leaves,

the map folded
on the passenger seat
like a letter
I will never send.

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