The Poetry Society

Almost last summer, the cobblestones

of France are fresh at mind.

The aged men upon the public benches

and the quirky ladies selling someone-else's

handmade ceramic chickens are all easy to recall;

the petrol-tug of the wheeled-train

upwards, through the fields of grapes,

the wine-to-be, dusted with dirt-track-sand

and cordoned off, placed, tagged and spaced.

I know well the swell of sand

upon the foot of deckchairs, the light

background-music and the foreigners’

filming. All the cornets and the flavours

and the chiming of bees round the blossom.

I know for certain the cobblestones

of France fresh at mind, will return

someday, when I'm more aged

and more appreciative and I can bask at

the feet of the mountains, humming

 just-out-of-sync with the chiming of bees

round the blossom.