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Viaduct

This morning, because the weather was lovely, we went out for a walk, along the little valley of the Calmette, along a narrow mossy lane overhung with trees. We admired a big old house at the top of the valley, surrounded by Italian cypress trees, a style that has dubbed this region, the Tuscany of France. There was nothing else, just fields, woods, the little river, until we rounded a bend and came upon a railway viaduct.


The Viaduc des Calmettes carried a single line narrow gauge railway 159 metres over the river valley. The line was closed decades ago, the track removed, and the viaduct opened to walkers. Cars are also allowed to use it, which seems like provocation since it’s only a metre wide. Judging by the height of the grass growing along the surface, I doubt anyone has been silly enough to try.
























Birthday walk

My birthday light is green and red-gold, sky an ocean of grey billowed dove, gull, jackdaw, tracked back and forth by the lone cormorant, flocks of wood pigeons, the quiet piping of small birds the slow graceful glide of untidy-feathered buzzards, the rush and stoop, gathered wings, beak, talons. The thick mud of the farm tracks are patterned with prints, toes and nails, the yellow spread baby hands of field maples, deep lush brown of everything else, layered with wet and worms. And everywhere is the sound of running water, the silver jingle over fallen boughs, rush and roar where watercourses meet, the shooting of the new year is already deep and rich, garlic, lords and ladies, nettles spreading like pools of green water.

Spring is a concept
in this round blue world life runs
in constant circles

brook river ocean
gull-cloud silver rain flower
petals in the stream