Haibun cévenol
high high up
two snake-eagles –
incarnations of air
Where does
the sky’s blue begin, and end? Is everything washed in it, simply invisible to
human eyes?
now
sunflowers
mark
our way
We walk the
heathery altitudes beyond where a squabble of bee-eaters flirted with the
mountain this morning –
imagine
making
your life
from
a diet of fur and sting
The blossom’s
a-hum with thousands of bees in the great sounding-bowl of the valley. In the
resiny honey heat our walking is a kind of stillness, almost liquid – a
metheglyn of movement, our flesh a blend of rock and air and heather, steeped
in mountain thyme, oregano, mint.
Above us,
green hedgehog husks, still ripening –
old
man chestnut
hollow
tower of trunk
hosting
a dozen saplings
We dither by
the beehives on a scarp that could be Dartmoor, if bigger. Below us are meadows
of wild crocus. We might be lost.
fuck the flower-meadows
says
B when I gesture
we
laugh, carry on
Across in all
directions mountains are cutouts of blue rice-paper, origami hamlets scattered
like stray thoughts. I think of Robert Louis Stevenson, of the others who’ve
travelled behind him, obliging donkeys in tow.
this
earthwalk –
certainties
don’t count
only
the lightness of your tread
the capacity of your heart
© Roselle Angwin
© Roselle Angwin
NB: several people have emailed me; just to say that though I can receive emails (when the Wifi connection is working), and access social media, for some reason I can't send. Apologies – I'll respond when I can.
One of the participants on the retreat I've been leading has written a lovely and moving blog about the week here.
Roselle - this is breath taking and beautiful. I climbed the hill with you and saw the whole valley from a different view, heard sounds, tasted colours, touched that old man chestnut again and loved the resiny honey heat. France calls and entices - a temptress at her most seductive. So French. Un jardin secret de sauvagerie. x Jen
ReplyDeleteRoselle – your words are flowing well and I hope you feel they are. Wonderful evocations in prose and poetry, but please tell me what methaglyn is? If you can? If you know and are not just seduced by its sound!
ReplyDeleteI love, particularly, 'old man chestnut; fuck the meadows (! made us laugh too); a diet of fur and sting' – something I've always pictured when I think of those who gobble bees.
It's clear we both need a good break from routine. It's hot again here in Pershore with too much to do out there in the jungle; but true to place and fame, the plums, apples, pears are exuberantly fecund, though not quite ready for eating yet (pears & apples i.e.)
Cool, calm Northumberland beckons and we're off on the 13th for 11 days. Shall email on return (another holiday north late Oct so not much writing, I'm afraid.)
Keep the words flowing and the joy bubbling.
Love from Miriam (and Jeff, of course) to you and anyone else around you who can share it.
mmm lovely. Seems like you could do more of this!
ReplyDeleteJen - thank you! Great to envisage your having been here too, and love 'un jardin de sauvagerie'! See you in Nov.
ReplyDeleteMiriam - thank you as always. Actually that's about the only piece of writing I've done other than my 100-words (MOST days!), but I'm glad it spoke to you, and I liked picturing your place too. Enjoy your time away. Metheglyn is a mead-based liqueur, with herbs steeped in it. I used to make it from mead (which as you'll know is honey-based). There are few crops grown here - 'sweet' onions are the exception - in the immediate mountain environment; honey, goats' cheese and sweet chestnuts are the mountain produce.
Veronica - thank you! Indeed, and this week of doing very little except immersing myself in Place has been wonderful. Not finished yet, as tomorrow we have a week in the campervan drifting slowly west then north... Good to hear from you.
Love to you all Rx