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Wind rattles shutters weathered to driftwood grey
in village alleys; bougainvillea flips,
jazzy purple dancer
to a cicada beat in the rough gust of diesel and warm pine.
Indigo sea laps lazily at its own town,
ruffled by the hot breath but unconcerned,
pats white jostling boats
and licks the peopled sand and pebbles of its favourite coast.
Houses the colour of dust and time surround the courtyard
where little boys played football, quiet now,
and then the evening light
is softest, shifting, fleeting apricot behind the greying hills.
-
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Rosa the foxfinch
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Ernesto the Crocoduck
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17 comments:
what a wonderful poem, so lyrical, so vivid, a postcard sized window on the world there
sensuous and sublime! love 'Wind rattles shutters..', 'Indigo sea laps lazily' and the last line is simply beautiful
who needs pictures when Zeph can write like this?
on the mark Zeph
late and babies awake...
back later
If anyone sent me a postcard like that I'd be on the next plane to join them. So evocative - I can smell that hot cote mix of thyme, lavender, bit of salt breeze, melting tarmac, and garlic overtones.
Thanks guys... I thought about adding a photo but decided the writing should be the picture really.
Might find a bit of bougainvillea to brighten up the site.
that's a nice bit of bougainvillea you've got here Zeph
no photo needed, Zeph. Words mean more.
Zeph,
thank you for this. You conjure up images of my home better than I ever could. It's very touching to read this now that I'm back here in my other home, after trading the Mistral for Trade Winds. The jazzy purple dancers are all over the place here too, as a unifying link between parallel universes.
I do have to take issue with your last line, though. Apricot is great. I probably wouldn't have thought of it to describe that particular shade of orange evening sky, but it works perfectly. Greying hills, on the other hand... Those rocky hills are grey indeed under the harsh sunlight of day, but they turn the deepest shade of purple in the evening.
Unless you were standing a lot closer to them, maybe?
It's a daunting task, isn't it, trying to find words that will fit such displays of unearthly colours? What would you call that unique tinge of pink that infuses the eastern sky at the same time the other side turns apricot?
Thanks Offy, praise indeed from someone who grew up with that landscape.
What names do you give colours... I was looking west across the small hills, not the mountains, and they were kind of slate colour as the light faded. As for that pink, there isn't a word, though there are some roses the same shade...
The shades of roses deserve their own forum. There is a climber called Handel - my father's name. We planted a climber in the 70s when he was first ill. He recovered, the rose was mighty. My best friend now has a Handel climber at her door. It is the most exquisite rose - pink at heart, and fading neatly to white at the edge of petals.
Zeph,
This is wonderful, I feel like I was there before, it's picture perfect.
Well, Guitou, you have been there, more often than me! It's a bit of Cagnes and a bit of Antibes combined.
Antibes or Anti-bees?
I have nothing against bees, Mimi, nice furry little beasts and the honey is good. I like bumble bees a lot, don't you?
Zeph: bees on the whole are a good thing. Bumbles specially sweet and aerodynamically all wrong which makes them even better! Wasps on the other hand ...
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