The stars are in our belly; the Milky Way our umbilicus.
Is it a consolation that the stuff of which we’re made
is star-stuff too?
– That wherever you go you can never fully disappear –
dispersal only: carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen.
Tree, rain, coal, glow-worm, horse, gnat, rock.
Monday, 25 August 2014
100 and 100
The Waterfall Experience has tempted a couple of people in these days of sun; it's still sublimely and shrinkingly cold, though, so I've been more tempted to sit on a rock in the heat and gaze at ripples and dragonflies and intrepid bathers.
With my own creative expression still hiding out in the hills somewhere, I give you from Miriam in England and Bea in les Cévennes (writing outside the same café as I was the other day) two more lyrical lots of 100 words.
100 from home: 24.8.14
They’re here, like a squall in the green-gold evening though the wind tiptoes.
A niece, calm and beautiful, her graceful moves belying irritation – her husband a driving hailstorm of assertion; their one-year-old toddling, reaching bare-foot for the world beyond our windows. They leave after a disturbed night. Now, the wind holds its breath, as if sensing the caul of exhaustion in late-summer cool, light still gold.
Seventy-one years ago today my parents married. Too late for this third generation, their shadows weave contented abandonment through the trees containing our haven. This year, autumn’s early.
Place de l’Eglise –
in one corner
“attention chute de neige du toit!” –
watching the first leaves
fluttering from the planes
boules waiting dents
into gritty sand –
street lanterns gracefully
draped with geraniums –
to their mums –
where I am thinking of you –
“t’as bien dormi?” –
three years ago
you said good-bye to this world –
“vous avez fini maintenant?” –
the metallic twelve o’clock
chimes from the nearby clocher –
by the panting
of the lovely black lab-spaniel
under the next table
echo the sound
of leaving footsteps –
I can see the seam of your skirt...
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