On the back of a paper packet
At some point whilst living in Geneva, I went off on an exploration, and a visit, to see the world around me. Or maybe I was at a station, waiting for the train to roll in, and my eyes would idly wander over the world going by. At any rate, all I had on me was a paper packet, that had held a couple of postcards I'd bought. And with nothing else, I scribbled out a few lines, trying in some way to preserve what I could see.
From the very first week I spent in the country, this was just another village.
There's nothing but the water on the rocks, soft swells in a solitary boat's wake. France's hills are already smudges on the horizon, and the snow and stone grey, too far from the sun's set path to reflect a fire. The stone cut lines of the hill rise in green tops, wines full-flourish on the sheer banked walls. Peeking through, red tiled curves reflect the undulating houses, belying a twist of cobbled stones and curving streets, narrow passes between high banked walls. But westwards, ahead of silver shimmering waters, the sky blushes with the bruising of a kiss, soft pinks and rumpled corners, the orange fire of the perfect summer evening.
The trainline hums, a blackened shadow, straight to the coloured crown of the land, then following, still, the rolled hills and stepped vineyards, dotted about with stone-cut towers, before all lingers down to the waters edge.
From the very first week I spent in the country, this was just another village.
There's nothing but the water on the rocks, soft swells in a solitary boat's wake. France's hills are already smudges on the horizon, and the snow and stone grey, too far from the sun's set path to reflect a fire. The stone cut lines of the hill rise in green tops, wines full-flourish on the sheer banked walls. Peeking through, red tiled curves reflect the undulating houses, belying a twist of cobbled stones and curving streets, narrow passes between high banked walls. But westwards, ahead of silver shimmering waters, the sky blushes with the bruising of a kiss, soft pinks and rumpled corners, the orange fire of the perfect summer evening.
The trainline hums, a blackened shadow, straight to the coloured crown of the land, then following, still, the rolled hills and stepped vineyards, dotted about with stone-cut towers, before all lingers down to the waters edge.