A few memories more

Saraphine was a great cook. She could make a meal out of thin air in five minutes. She had hair the colour of copper that glowed like a flame when the sun shone on it. She was an excellent gardener and could work as hard, or harder, as anyone I've ever met.
Her arms were long and slender and resolved themselves in two hands that were as beautiful as sculpted ivory. She was a natural girl with natural ways and a natural charm.She was fragrant without being perfumed. She needed no make up; her skin was perfect, and if she ever did apply any, it would be done so subtly and so tastefully that you assume she'd always looked that beautiful (which she often did, even in the morning).
I loved her legs; her head; her elbows; her blue eyes; her smile; her mind; her mouth; her freckles; her laughter; her waist; her hips; her kisses; her knees; her thumbs; her smooth, golden shoulders and her slender neck and the way it gently sloped into her gorgeous back; the curve of her thighs and all the other pieces of her puzzle; all the places I knew intimately; the places where I would often find myself, exhausted in serenity.
She could paint beautifully and had and excellent eye for photography. She always dressed well and, even with little money, she still managed to look stunning and individual.
She was caring, kind, funny, generous and thoughtful.
She could also be terribly moody and pout like a thirteen year old girl. She could make me feel like a god or a fool; amazing or completely wretched. She had a tendency to want things her own way and could sulk like pro.
She sang, sometimes with a slight American accent, and I would often hear a verse or two, of one song or another that I recognised, coming from a room somewhere in the house, usually the kitchen or the bathroom. It made me smile.
Only once did I see her so helplessly drunk that she could hardly walk, and that had been after a long day in the sunshine, drinking pastis and red wine, but I picked her up off the floor from underneath the piano, and carried her boots for her that evening as she walked unsteadily home, barefoot along the warm tarmac of the road, with her arm around my shoulder and her head resting on her chest like a wounded soldier.

At Noon

There at noon
in the still of the clock
as the bells ring out an iron tune
from the air
holding it's breath
at noon

with hands together
the hour goes on forever
in furnaces of sun
through silent streets
along which
no feet run
and no songs are sung
at noon

where the keystone of the arch
hangs heavy with the past
in the shadow of the church
through the light of old stained glass
the midday minutes pass
as slowly as a hearse
at noon

Libation

Love sings through the veins
and still it trills and rises
like an ancient melody
an unexplainable mystery
the body hums with smiles
and blood so sweet
the gods would drink contentedly
the springing floods of ecstasy
and catch each night
a burst of stars
like glowing gems
in undiscovered mines
exploding in the minds
of passions held
the songs that fills the brain
and the muscles burnt with loving pain
The cry and howl
for timeless moods
to sing aloud
the song of fire
a flower born of pure desire
the wish and prayer
that holds me still
in crowning seasons
trees and views displayed
the tapestries of lovers dreams
in skin and form are made
the flame was shown
not of this world
unready and reserved
for goals acceptable
but breaking rules
and running free
so that no law or hand could hold me
from burning like magnesium
a fool a god
a human

Silence Sings

I lounged on the balcony of Maison Verte today. No shoes, no socks; my trousers rolled up to my knees; shirtless, blowing smoke rings into the blue, blue sky.
The sun was extraordinarily hot for this time of year, and I, to my surprise, caught a tan.
It was hard to sit here on such a beautiful day, and not think back to my summer here last year. What a summer! The summer during which I broke the golden clay of this land and planted the seeds of vegetables and fruits, nurturing each one like a father, caring for them, eventually harvesting them and sharing them all with those around me with such pleasure.
So many wonderful feelings and sensations of happiness came flooding back to me as I rested in the sunshine. Naturally, I thought of Saraphine.
The sun will always remind me of her, as will flowers; Indian bean trees; stag-horns; bossanova music, soft summer breezes and Ricard pastis.
As I sat in the golden silence of noon, I could hear her say, "oui, bien sur," the way she said it, and how she looked when she said it, her flame-red hair slightly to one side, a gentle nod of her head and a sea-shell smile.
"Oui, bien sur," in such a gorgeous melody of voice.
She was the sun...

Things have come full circle now, like the course of the sun itself. And my memory plays tricks on me. Because I remember a joyful time; one of the happiest times of my life. But I have been told that it was a fantasy, that it was unreal and that it didn't really mean that much in the end. But that's not how I remember it all, so my memory must be a trickster.
And as I sit here, looking out over the red and orange rooftops of Rue Longue, framed by the sapphire of the sky, on this unusual and beautiful summers day, in the middle of winter, with my skin slowly turning the colour of Cafe Au Lait, I think to myself that my suntan lasted longer than my love affair.
And although the sun is setting now, it will rise again, and there will be other summers, but there will never be another Saraphine...

'See-More' She Said

The early morning mist is slowly lifting. I have a feeling that by this afternoon the sky will be clear and blue, like only it can be, down here in the south of France, and the sun will be shining as if it were spring.
I took a walk out around the village at about 8:30am, and went to buy myself a loaf of rye bread from Madeline. The quality of her bread varies from mediocre to awful. Her cakes are generally not so good, and her biscuits are often worse.
As usual, the village was deserted apart from the inbred woman and her blind husband, who always take a walk together to the patisserie every morning. Judging by the look of his wife, I have a feeling that he was always blind. But there is obviously much love between them, as they walk silently arm in arm together through the narrow, misty, medieval streets of Simorre.
It's like a deserted film set here. All the actors have played out their parts and exited the stage long ago. You can catch the odd glimpse of broken silhouettes behind shuttered and curtained windows, but more often than not, you're more likely to meet a rag-eared cat or a stray wandering dog than a human being.
Occasionally a car will pass you, but they always appear to be driver-less. Impossible, I know, but that's how it seems.
Nobody talks about the crashing stock market here and there are no Iranian missiles overhead. Most conversations revolve around memories and past events.
The future is a stranger here, an unknown outsider, who is rumoured to be coming, but never arrives.
I would love to have seen Simorre in it's heyday. I imagine that the covered market square once bustled and hummed with activity and life, but now it stands empty, and the ancient oak timbers that hold up it's creaking terracotta tiled roof are as worn and as weathered as the decaying timber hull of a shipwreck.
My time here, in this town that stands outside of time, is almost over.
I didn't really 'see-more' here, but I certainly felt more and thought more than I have for a little while.
Soon I'll be gone, off to meet the future, because if I wait here for it to come, I'll be waiting forever...