from BARDO

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.

Roselle Angwin

Saturday, 23 August 2014

100 words from les cévennes

Spill of it all: geraniums, foliage, wild herbs; words, desires, fears, hopes. Children, French voices, mobile phones, coffee cups. ‘Attention chute de neige du toit’, declares the church. All the fêtes: next month ‘Fête de l’Onion Doux des Cevennes’. Gazing up into the plane tree – young branches radiating from pollarded stumps like umbrella spokes. Two glossy dogs’ enthusiasm, 100 metres’ distant, at meeting their kind. Tonk of boules in the sandy place. Anniversary of a death; anniversary of a birth. Me in the midst of the moment, the day, our many mutual lives, the quiet ancient presence of les garrigues.


  1. Roselle: was so inspired by your Cevennes 100 that I produced one (see below and it is 100 if you ignore the title) after a lightning visit from a dear niece – my brother's youngest – and family. You may not want to post it – it's uninvited after all! – but see what you do? Inspire; and as always, it's like sorbet to my other writing. This could become a daily compulsion! Must aim to continue. (I wonder if my 100 is more prose than proem?)
    Thanks and enjoy Cevennes and the not-quite-autumn weather, no doubt?
    Love, Miriam.

    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.

  2. Miriam - thank you. Delighted to post it! I'm not worrying with my own pieces any longer whether they're prose poems or prose or poetry - or - what??

    It's been really changeable here all summer, but today and yesterday have been hot enough to eye the waterfall pool (and decide the water will be too cool).

    Shall post that along with Bea's 100 from the village recently.

    With love



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