terrain

A wander around our little (3,000 population) commune – that sounds patronising as in fact it’s a thriving town (St Quentin la Poterie) with all the facilities we need – to admire the glycine . . . in Rue de la République . . .

. . . and next to Hervé in Place du Belle Croix

. . . and over a door in Rue de ???

Glycine comes from the ancient greek meaning sweet or syrupy because the sap has those attributes.

Wisteria comes from the name of a physicien and anatomist in Philadelphia – Caspar Wistar 1761-1818 – a friend of Thomas Jefferson and, at one point, the president of The Society of Abolition of Slavery and, whose forbears/ family were ardent botanists. Wisteria remains a printer’s typo!

The morning is full of storm
in the heart of summer.
The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye,
the wind, travelling, waving them in its hands.
The numberless heart of the wind
beating above our loving silence.
Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees
like a language full of wars and songs.
Wind that bears off the dead leaves with a quick raid
and deflects the pulsing arrows of the birds.
Wind that topples her in a wave without spray
and substance without weight, and leaning fires.
Her mass of kisses breaks and sinks,
assailed in the door of the summer’s wind. Pablo Neruda The Morning is Full

To gather flowers, Sappha went,
And homeward she did bring
Within her lawny continent,
The treasure of the Spring.

She smiling blush’d, and blushing smiled,
And sweetly blushing thus,
She look’d as she’d been got with child
By young Favonius.

Her apron gave, as she did pass,
An odour more divine,
More pleasing too, than ever was
The lap of Proserpine.  Robert Herrick  The Apron of Flowers

An afternoon in 1er arrondissement Marseille to the east of the old port and where the L’ombrière fans across the blunt end of the port to provide shelter for folks waiting for tourist boats and for outdoor activities such as concerts, markets and pop ups and a magnet for photographers . . . Foster was the architect of this mirrored clad landmark which . . .

. . . can offer disconcerting images.

Nearby, an old and gracious facade infilled with present day horrors.

Functional can also be well arranged – post boxes at the entrance to Les Arcenaulx – excellent menu BTW.

And then into Maison Empereur in Rue des Récolettes described online as ‘home improvement store’ and well suppose it is but in 1827 when it was opened then quincaillerie fitted the description. It’s a must visit not only because the stairs have a proper newel post and soap is sold in very large pieces . . .

. . . the night was spent in the chambre d’hôtes offered by Maison Empereur – wonderful ambience.

 The mind is an enchanted thing
  like the glaze on a 
katydid-wing
      subdivided by sun
      till the nettings are legion.
Like Giesking playing Scarltti;

like the apteryx-awl
  as a beak, or the 
kiwi’s rain-shawl
      of haired feathers, the mind
      feeling its way as though blind,
walks along with its eyes on the ground.

It has memory’s ear
  that can hear without
having to hear.
      Like the gyroscope’s fall,
      truly equivocal
because trued by regnant certainty,

it is a power of strong enchantment. It

 is like the dove-
    neck animated by
    sun; it is memory’s eye;
it’s conscientious inconsistency.

It tears off the veil; tears
  the temptation, the 
mist the heart wears,
    from its eyes – if the heart
    has a face; it takes apart
dejection. It’s fire in the dove-neck’s

iridescence; in the inconsistencies

of ScarlattI. 
    Unconfusion submits 
    its confusion to proof; it’s
not a Herod’s oath that cannot change. Marianne Moore

Thank you A for some of the photos.

The path lies above the village – running northwards from the Madonne – larger than life size supposedly blessing ? with open arms facing to the south and past Uzès. The ground falls away sharply on both sides to crater-like bowls . . .

Some sprays of Ruscus aeculatus – much has been gathered and sold in the markets for Xmas decorations – sprouts above the polypodium ground cover.

Looking down and stroking the tactile moss covered rocks but avoiding the Umbilicus rupestris (navelwort or penny-pies) . . .

then looking up to the branches of the white oak coated with lichens . . .

but folks create their own installations too . . .

and the path divides when trees and rocks define . . .

and the route beckons to who knows where?

To travel the world explicit

In its fault and fold.

To enter the background

as each thought discards itself:

pine-needles to the tree-line,

scree beyond.

To move small, sleep low

and dream new depths

Of emptiness and order. 

To be troubled by neither.

The loosening air

concentrates your blood

And your heart has a simple grip

of speedwell or gentian.

You forget what it is

to elaborate or qualify.

You breathe

white against white sky. Lavinia Greenlaw. On the Mountain.