01012014 Five chimes

Five chimes
Five chimes from a French cloche sound the hour.
Repeated a few moments later
to remind those within hearing distance,
in case one has not heard,
nor counted, that it is the TIME.
White clouds skitter about a blue sky skirting our world.
Pink and blue hues press grey woodsmoke to the village valley.
As I descend from walking the plateau above that vale
where houses hunker down around the church tower recently renovated,
where people snuggle down around the brass bell recently repaired,
now more sonorous to tell the hour and the half hour,
I smell the hazy, smoky woodiness of a garden bonfire in late autumn,
not many days before the winter solstice.
I see the curling woodsmoke spiralling towards the sky,
to be pressed down around the field in which it is.
A most beautiful village with smells so sweet and smoky
to mark a changing season towards the changing end of year.

With all my very best wishes for a wonderfully exciting 2014.
Love from  RestlessinFrance

Copyright. Please do not reproduce without permission 
Photo November 2013 from my rooftop: Poem December 2013

Poem: A Cornish Adventure

A Cornish Adventure

“Let’s Go” he shouts as we leave Heyl, start of the estuary,

up to River Allen, which shines in shimmering mystery,

towards the crooked river, called in Cornish, Kammel,

rising source in Bodmin Moor, now the River Camel,

draining itself and its tributaries into the Celtic Sea

we follow too the geography, with our bicycles, him and me.

At Padstow famous for people, fish and food,

fishing boats sit, bottoms in thick mud,

in the early morning dawning sun

we leave that charming, bustling town.

Leave the ebb and flow of harbour life,

Leave the muddle of market strife,

Leave the rugged coastline coves,

Leave the pure clean sandy beaches,

Leave the seaweed kelp and bays,

Leave the commerce for natural days,

Leave the muddy harbour and fishing port,

Take a gentle challenge of the two-wheeled sport.

Off we go cycling along the trail, once a working railway track,

reach the grand old Bodmin Jail, pedalling there and back.    

Alongside the estuary 
partake of cups of coffee

Chocolate cones for creamy ice cream 

Blackberry ice to make us scream

Scones and jam with Cornish cream - a treat for thee and me. 

Sea fret on a sparkling sea.

Tide is risen high with glee.

Seals moan mournfully in the bay.

Sun shines on the sea all day.

Returning to our starting point

we watch in twilight setting sun

fishermen board their colourful boats

in yellow dungarees and coats

head out of harbour on a rising tide

slip the ropes fearlessly with pride

to harvest mackerel from their schools

providing people with salient Omega oils.

Earlier a river bed

with driven deep rivulets

was a muddy chocolate brown.

Later a river flooded

with sea whilst white sailed yachts

come to restaurants in town.

The estuary ebbs and flows, 
in and out, 
without a doubt

reflecting twinkling fishing boats.
  

Yet cyclists are never at sea

For they're eating mackerels grilled for supper or their tea.

It's Yet Another

It's Yet Another gloriously grey day
where clouds leave no room towards the end of May
for red or orange, yellow or blue
to shine or peek even a little bit through.
As the grey scudding vapour passes overhead high
what does it matter if the sun is not in the sky?

Life on a dull day is better than to die,
when light and dark, 
warmth and cold,
rain and sun,
will matter not.

At 10 o'clock in the morning
treat of a chocolate pudding
as a shopping 40% reduction in a glass jar
says to me aha
glides past my lips
down onto my hips
in a sweet brown slurp
promise not to burp.