Provence

Out of Avignon on the way to Nimes
you handed me a ripe peach
plucked from a tree
at the side of the road


"And what of the farmer?" I said
your answer came swift -
a whiff of revolution May '68
infused with a cool noblesse oblige
"It's OK, travellers and tramps
hold a share of the harvest
consider it their inalienable right"


I was unready for your heady brew
your artist palette of purple hues
fields of lavender, sage, thyme
your fragrant nectar spun my senses
stunned and stilled me


we cycle by vineyards, small farms
fences covered in morning glory
honeysuckle on walls and porticos
tea roses tumbling from terracotta pots


in the heat of midi we pause to share
citronade glacee` avec madeleine
ice-cubes tinkle against glass
diamond bright, insect hum
cicada drone - I m taken
filled in your sun


we ride beneath towering trees
a conspiracy of green
open-air cathedrals
woven leaves
enmeshed web tight
blotting out the immensity
of blue still beckoning
in the distance
sure as a promise


the river meanders lazy into Nimes
under the Roman aqueduct -
giant, still casting
shadows from dark days
the earth does not forget
the once blood-soaked fields of Gaul


I stand in awe, mind reeling
feeling empathy for my French kin
I am back inside those fear-filled days
of smoke and pain
feeling the ghost of Caesar's cold slaughter
cutting a swathe through May Day joy
his war machine proficient
prophetic, as if preparing the way
for the all pervading
unrelenting Christ religion


then the burning of the heretics -
herb-women, Cathars, Albigensians
(I was surely there when a dissolute pope
decreed whole villages razed)
massacred for a belief -
divinity of trees
all submerged now, pressed deep
into earth's layered stratum
almost forgotten
beneath the weight -
invasion after invasion


locals sunbathe, flirt by the river
fraternise, obsess in mirrors
bikini narcisse
pagan times not on their minds
(oblivious to my
history-tripping euphoria)
everyday scenery too familiar
their icon of an aqueduct
almost unseen
along with it's meaning


by La Gardon's rocky banks we lie
insignificant beneath the icon
drowsy in warm siesta sun
my pale celt skin turns honey-gold
one summer in Provence
I am, in love




Pamela Sidney 2002