Provence

Steep forested hills, sudden eruption sof rock,
Warm scent of pine and eucalyptus
And wild herbs, absorbed through the skin;
Brilliant lizard in a wave of light,
I kiss the thighs of each moment,
Twist out of my body on mimosa sprees.

I feel like the first Greek ashore,
Planting figs and olives, cherry trees and vines,
Looking out for nymphs at every spring.

The white horse, born black,
Turns to snow in his fourth year
And the myriad blues of Mont Ventoux
Ceaselessly swarm and mutate.

Old towns, tight mazes
For the blindfolded lover,
Winding stairs up to the castles
And a glimpse of heaven,
Hot breath behind green shutters
In the silent hour.

Actors in a Roman theatre,
We romp like children through the latest farce
Then nip backstage and don the tragedians’ masks.

Oh to have been in Avignon
In the days of the wicked Popes,
With all the scholars, heretics and hustlers,
When all the vices flourished
In the monstrous palace,
The fat feuding cardinals in bed with their mistresses,
Draping them in jewels and furs
Purchased with the Devil’s bribes,
Musicians, chefs and artists
Fighting for patronage and honour,
Riotous banquets, secret orgies,
Machiavellian intrigues.

Glimmering violet rocks,
Translucent sea,
February mimosa blossom,
Golden chestnuts in autumn,
Reddening vines…
Phosphorescent beaches,
Dark shade of pines and oaks and eucalyptus,
Chestnut-forested hills…
We speak the language of birds,
The troubadours’ code,
Dark on dark, capturing the light,
Homing it ever inwards.

These are the mercies of your body:
Olives and garlic,
White peaches and muscat grapes,
Melons and strawberries,
Almonds and sweet chestnuts,
Basil and wild thyme.
Taste the lavender in the honey,
The tinge that makes the whole…
Here – a purple gentian,
A lover’s token;
Place it in your bosom,
Keep it there.

In the cathedral cloisters at Fréjus,
In a scented garden, around a well,
The slender marble columns rise,
Supporting a wooden ceiling
Painted with monsters and mermaids,
Satyrs’ bacchanalia.

In the depths of caves
Prehistoric painted handprints glow;
Horses running into the dawn sun,
Bison and deer with the sad eyes of humans
Accepting the hunter’s spear.

Flamingos on the marshes,
Black bulls sizing up the horizon,
White horses running free,
And the gypsies arriving from all directions
For the feast of their patron saint…
Caesar’s bastards,
We have our own empire,
Our own dark tongue
In which to hymn
The marriage of Christ
And the Magdalene.

Sunlight on the slopes,
Honeysuckle and immortelle,
Quickness and stillness
Of lizards on the rocks,
Vines and cherry orchards
Stretching into the haze…
We breathe the distant snows
Of sacrificial mountains,
Walking into the waves,
The tide of light…