1.
cloudless blue, warm, still,
the field left to grass, the
house cat hides behind
thistles to stalk mice,
as the morning waxes
hay rolls seem to glisten
and in the field cow parsley
heads all face the same
way as if at a religious
gathering, it is Sunday
after all,
the tranquil hiss and hum
of the countryside the only
hymn being played,
for some this is a holy day
so, quietly I say my prayer,
blessing my loved ones and
secretly allow myself
redemption
2.
we found her mouse
floating backstroke
in the pool skimmer,
carrion for the buzzard
that rigorously patrols
our sky like a drone,
the strangled repartee
of a baby cockerel from
the farm makes us smile
juvenile owls in the copse
seemingly answering its call,
down the lane the vines
look in fine shape in
spite of the heat,
perfect corduroy files
above a velvet undergrowth
a nod to lovers of the soil,
we drink the red wine
from this land, decent,
honest, respectable
shown in the rugged
face of the vigneron,
3.
a well advertised
temperature spike
surges above forty,
like most animals we
lie low and stay close
to home, using the pool
to keep cool,
our vacation torpor
contrasts to that of the
village which bristles
with movement, ancient
agricultural machinery
clatters past the door
behind tractors of a
similar vintage,
the baker was up at dawn
creating mouthwatering
aromas by breakfast time,
people stand, greet and
chatter as if the weekend
had been enforced hibernation,
we are content croissants
in hand croque-monsieurs
for lunch
4.
as the days’ heat gives way
crickets bristle and zing in a
chorale of botanical tinnitus,
there’s cloud tonight for the
first time this week to wrap
the unspent tag end of our day,
we drink a bottle of Molhiere
a Chateau La Rode too, both
born and raised here as
carefully as are the local
school children,
5.
the local people,
the older folk
might think it strange,
that foreigners, holiday
in a former landmark of their
quiet unassuming village,
ancient, once ruinous
now restored with Miro
themed stained glass
the chapel brought
back to life, still hides
meekly in plain site
6.
uncomfortably warm
brushing forty
a merciless sun
taunts us to bare flesh
even gaudy sunflowers
cringe and bow heavily
blackened faces,
a white dog frolics in
the ancient lavoir,
barking its joy in
unbridled appreciation,
makeshift sunscreens
strung here and there
for feeble shade give
the village a Bedouin feel,
as three nuns tumble from
the bakery ecstatically
cradling croissants as if
having won prizes
their habits must feel
like saunas
7.
why this village,
this area, when it could
easily have been any
of ten thousand,
one classified ad
amongst many others
a boozy Sunday lunch
the idea of holidaying
in a French farmhouse
and forty years fly by,
and here we are,
almost locals, returning
like swifts and swallows
to the place we love,
there’s a serenity about
this place, no airs nor
graces, just peace,
the natives must think
us strange, but have
now welcomed three
generations of my family
here as fondly as their own,
until we fly away again
8.
from an busy autoroute
in the middle of nowhere
sweetcorn tall on one side
ripe black face sunflowers
bowing low on the other
from along a beaten track
by the roadside
a beautiful horsewoman
cantering on a grey,
skirting the corn, glimpsed
for only a second
here deep in France
‘profonde’,
where else?
© Graham R Sherwood 08/25
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 