Saint Veraud
My House
The window, cracked admits sounds of the out, of night. Rain accumulating through grass and soil, running down into the cut of the burn. An aeroplane sings in darkness, thirty thousand steps upwards into the sky, five hundred miles each hour. The fox of last week has stopped screaming and lies now asleep for an eternity upon the metalled road. Rosebay Willow Herb invades my dreams, purple lances and drifts of feathered seeds. At this hour the day falls with question, may never arise from its bed, all is still and calm save for the shrew in avid pursuit of earthen worms.
Afshin’s House
A green bird laugh echoes out over a river of cicadas and the metallic progress of vehicles some way below. Pigeons call from limestone caves to walkers on the Chemin, the yellow route, moving North. The day’s heat is building underneath oak trees old, juniper, pine. Blocks of stone, standing and fallen everywhere. Along the trail small piles of fox scat purple with damsons. Air fills the landscape. Small saplings hold up their arms in optimism through dry, dry grass and thyme. Everywhere the smell of herbs.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ar 2025~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thanks to Dafne Kritharas and Paul Barreyre for beautiful voices and guitar.
