At the Chateau Lacoste

Under the stone arch of the Goats’ Gate,

Past shuttered houses,crouched and spying,

You climb over cobbles to the wolf in the mist…

Beloved residence of the Marquis de Sade,

Fortress-theatre of reckless imagination ,

Where the same man who would revel

With his children at hide-and-seek

Also choreographed pornographic fiestas

With virgins, valets and whores.

Here he could always return in trouble,

Fleeing the law and enemies’ revenge,

Safe among the contrary peasants

Who shrugged off his every scandal

As the normal antics of a nobleman

And never ,to the end,betrayed him,

Though he scorned them as canaille.


From the ruined ramparts,you survey

Foreboding country,the mother wolf

That whelped a criminal-martyr.

Red clay soil and dark green olive trees,

Mustard yellow and orange of autumn,

A breeze in the rosemary and thyme...

You wander the narrow stone alleys

At twilight ,the buildings turning gold

Then yellow,then grey-white...

France will be a part of you,always,

However far from her superb excess,

Urging abandon,rebellion and love.

What’s a man without obsessions and delusions?

One carries on,despite the knowledge

That finally,the longsuffering villagers

Turned on their disgraced seigneur

And tore his hated castle down.