The Twelve

The twelve 

A whole week we had

so long anticipated, golden glowing 

on all our horizons, and now afterwards 

shining like a dream 

Hot sun, sea September warmed 

the shush and swoosh as shore breakers broke 

and curled and pulled away. 

We sat in the ten euro shade of our well-positioned parasol 

and gossiped endlessly, astonished by thongs laughing 

wriggled into swimsuits, braved the sea’s strong undertow 

for the loveliness of clear blue green. 

Alas for a silent jelly fish, and Michael sudden stung. 

Long days begun with a rendez-vous at 8, the early morning dip 

daily croissant shop, cycle rides and cliff side walks 

of tapas at Blau in the heat of midday ( padron peppers! Chipirones! ) 

Plus two greyer  days of Bridge and indoor games 

amongst the group always someone for a chat 

two Shirley curries, a Tucker quiz, who knew about  ditloids, 

brains well-teased, a trophy for Woznicas. 

As always memorable meals as the sun went down, fire on the water 

no golfers this year to pay our bill! 

And yet in spite of Covid unwelcome uninvited 

headache, sore throat and endless cough cough coughing 

Llafranc 2024, one whole week, stretches out in memory, laughter and thongs

Catalonia and tapas, the blessed company of friends, the twelve 

so long  anticipated. 

Blessings counted, blissful, this year’s magic on the Med. 

October 2nd 2024 Hounoux, for dear friends 

The Magic Box

The magic box 

 I will put in the box 

hot solstice night, full moon, fête de la musique

swifts wheeling and squealing 

Woznica’s dancing in the street 

2016, all of us hoping, surely, surely we’d remain 

I will put in the box

Alan in his DJ raising his baton and his eye-brows

Ros with accordion, Moulin Rouge 

the blessed cool of the church 

our voices echoing

So many summer garden gatherings 

Eileen’s pavlova, salads, tarts 

sunsets over châteaux 

Is that Penny on the phone? 

Hugo and Alan, the American Songbook 

tears and laughter 

Art and pottery, exhibitions, poetry and plays 

Cheryl behind a curtain helpless - as Clive and I got lost 

or ditto Jo and Alan, improving on our scripts 

the too-much drunken audience hysterical at le Stop 

living the dream in the sun and the south. 

I will put in my box a memory of lockdown 

how we helped each other through

the Friday quizzes, friends in London, Canada

Leo’s Aussie authors, quite unknown 

and always Andy, reluctant, dragged in by his wife

I will put in the box the annual excitement 

trip to the Costa for sun and sea, sangria 

Marek diving to search for a ring

the warmth of the water, the tapas in Calau 

the Japanese meal and the tab our new friends paid! 

My box has the scent of a parasol pine 

It’s decorated with Zinnias and purple sprouting, gifted by Mike 

inset with the silver songs of several shades of grey

for it is carved of love and friendships 

true friends who care and call when things go wrong 

found here in Léran and beyond 

a miracle of magic in our triple-locked carte vitale rose-golden years. 

19th August 2024, Hounoux 

Dancing raisins

 

Dancing raisins 

Sid sits with his grandad 

(Sid’s surely a fan) 

who’s patiently rebuilding his Rubik cube 

despite his disability ( he’s colour-blind) 

and we two septuagenarians smile 

for Sid is special, has a quirky way with words. 

He tells us of a classroom experiment entitled Dancing Raisins 

( something to do with gases we assume, though Sid’s not clear) 

but beautiful image, twenty seven children rapt, as the raisins after a brief pause 

rise, rise and begin their dance 

a rumba I’d like to think. 

Later Sid tells us that yesterday, when the fog was in the valley

in our house on the edge of a French hill

the clouds came into his room. 

I think of marshmallows floating and opportunities for bouncing 

or maybe dancing like raisins. 

Small moments , two grandparents listening 

Sid’s world of enchantment. 

29th July 2024 Hounoux, for the visiting Headeys 

The blue, the blue

 

The blue, the blue

What with the mauve-blue rosemary and lilac

bee-loud as Innisfree, wisteria in festoons 

all the hot sun day, blue day,

 sharp scented, sweet

you’d want to take a brush or pen

canvas, paper, paint 

squeezed tubes of blue in several shades, and gold

to gild and shine, 

to hug and hold the cloudless hour

the birdsong, dancing bees

art’s fixative

this perfect April day 

16th April 2024 Hounoux 

Where once the serin

 Where once the serin 

Where once the serin perched to sing 

the sweetest high-pitched notes, 

canary song, 

his tree long moribund is axed, for safety first 

despite my special pleading 

for his spot, this destination 

the miracle of annual return 

bright tiny flyer 

navigating here from Africa. 

How many days and miles to our garden 

behind the washing line, close by the damson tree 

always the same bare branch 

the flash of yellow, sweet high song

and me, rejoicing 

for spring and his return.  

17th March 2024 Hounoux 

Mothers’ Day 2024 

In the cut-out squares, pinked, so unfrayed 

perfect

top left the sun at dawn 

gilding the layered land. 

Next the gift of tulips, purple, not yet languid 

a swarm of tiny bees, mimosa flowers 

then Lily’s memory of games we played 

tea party in the fig tree (hidden) 

Next row left to right, too-early blossom 

plum and almond, bridal white, 

Bee’s message to her mum, love letter 

my mum, laughing. 

Along the bottom, blessings 

peaceful hours, log fire, the satisfaction of squares 

complex pattern, dark and light 

friends loved and lost. 

Patchwork pieces, a one day, Sunday 

legacy of loveliness. 

March 11th 2024, Hounoux 

I will put in the box

 

I will put in the box 

Not just one, instead a stack, shiny, clever 

of tiffin boxes, tightly clipped 

and first 

that all-pervading everywhere aroma

woodsmoke, spices, dust

Indian essence

with blare and startle of horns and high-pitched peep

in and out auto, car, overloaded motorbike and bus, 

wandering cow, munching 

new road, three lanes, no rules apply, weave/wander 

for gods sake stay alert! 

Lime-green paddy waterlogged 

houses in pink/ magenta/ turquoise, saris red and orange and yellow 

flowers in your hair 

here the hottest hues 

no beige, no bland. 

Like the past, another country 

they do things differently here 

although WhatsApp calls and Selfie! One more Selfie! 

could fool you otherwise..

Noise and sweat and dust, crows at full volume 

long wail of the train passing, over the points, over the points, 

all filling the tiffin boxes, magical 

between the sambas, rassam, rice and dhal, chapatti, dhosi, lentil cakes and idli, curd, 

and special pyassam, warm milk with cashews, raisins, sweet treat. 

All this is India, my India 

plus  mingled memories, the years of coming, from forty two to seventy five 

mum to granny, 

our friends once schoolboys fathers now and proud 

scraping a living somehow, though ‘India small money ma’am’ 

but no tiffin tower, however tall, could hold it all 

the light in their eyes, the smiles and the laughter 

the namastes and hugs across the years and many miles 

culture and language no barrier, not separated 

nothing between us except love.

21st January 2024 Guest House Ruhsa