from the cévennes mountains

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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

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.