The Cherry and the Vine

-The Cherry And The Vine -

The pilgrim and the monk barter at the door,

While the heel stone, kicked, heals

From stones flicked and trod upon the floor.

At the dawning of the age - which is the sage?

The cherry or the vine? Lugubriously entwined,

An ancient story, filled with sweet fruits,

The revelry of this banquets true glory.

I have heard the skylark

Call the golden chariot from out the storm,

And watched him chase the zephyr with his song,

Until the air, in rhapsody, filled my heart and soul in epiphany.

I have seen a hundred crows 

Murder a million shafts of gold,

And bold, flock into the reaches of the thunderclap,

To bow down in unison to Ceres ancient call.

The rise and fall, teetering upon the edge of the day.

I have watched as the honey bee, my friend,

Danced between the pistils of delight.

Banks of wildflowers, 

Deposited upon the waters edge,

An oasis of sacred sanity in the madness of modernity.

And in the end my friend,

To rest beneath your ancient boughs, the hours.

The cherries ripened in their season, plucked,

For the celebrants of nature's creation.

A Bacchanalian misadventure, 

Still young upon the vine.

To lift an ancient curse, 

In revelry, and time.

The season spent, I bent my heart to the wind,

A somnolent breeze, eased, through gnarled limbs.

Selene dipping her redolent toes into the clouds,

A repose, that every wounded heartbeat would allow.

Spring has gone, 

And Summer too has Autumn in her sights,

Like a farmer who wills the vagrant from his land,

The ravens hand will not be stilled for long.

But these are the days of the long sun,

Where neither pilgrim nor monk are king.

For in the still places,

The byways of those redolent spaces,

The ancient cherry still ripens,

Wrapped in Dionysian splendour,

Crowned, with the perfumed clutch of a wild rose.

- RMP 2018

The magical light of the Loire

Thunderstorms in tow...

I thought it best to once again allow the images to speak for themselves, for the journey down the Loire has been one of powerful and magical light and energy. Bright sun infused with thunderstorms, and all the while the somnabulent Loire lazily ambles along beside us...

Eglise Saint Hilaire and Saint Mesmin, across the St Nicolas bridge outside Orleans, the 'old' pilgrims way

Walking to the Loire from St Hilaire 

First evening camping on the Loire, just outside Grande Rue

Boise, Swans, and my travelling companion along the Loire Andrei

Magic along the Loire

Lunch at the pottery just before Charge, thunder on the way...

Racing the rain in Dionysian splendor, just outside Artingay

After the deluge descended the perfect sunset in Charge, Loire.

Fred Chabot's 'saxophonist', outside St Vincent Eglise, Amboise

Above: Organist plays Satie in St Denis. Below: Saint Denis,  Amboise 

Saint Martin Basilica with Charlemagne's Tower, Tours

I hope you enjoyed this brief trip down the Loire. It has been a pleasure to take you with me, and as ever there are many stories that will go into the book, along with friends and companions along the way.

Andrei and I 

I urge you to go to the link on the top left of the webpage and support Charity:Water in their drive to give everyone access to fresh drinking water. It is after all why I am walking the 2000km to Santiago de Compostella from the Netherlands. So please check them out, they are a fantastic charity doing essential work.

Merci :)

RMP

The Dance Of Innocence

'The Waltz',Camille Claudel, Nogent-sur-seine

The Dance Of Innocence

At days end, the weary traveler mends, and hopes in fate to find a friend.

Waves, that peak on foreign shore's, and know only the harbours of destinies sweet Amour's.

Twas another time, one in which your hand slipped in mine, twice I drew it out, thrice you clasped it once again.

'In another land, in another tongue,

The same heart beat's in everyone.

In another time, in another place,

The unity of life, loves infinite grace.'

We met as waves that beat upon a shore,

That only yesteryear were ripples, no more!

The dance of innocence, swept across a floor,

Like a one winged bird, waiting to take flight,

Lyra and Aquila smiling down in delight.

The artist and the muse, trussed twice, bemused.

The battles we have waged to keep our heads above the waves,

The spinning maid and the cowherd too, all are saved, all renewed.

How much is lost when we say we have won?

Then two become three, the artists great revelry,

Of tune and sound, and all the beauty spread around.

A grub, feeding on the popular! Became a caterpillar,

And wallowed in the smog of industry;

Yet, butterflies need a swan, to feed upon,

Cocooned in a marooned inspiration,

Until in quiet silence, nature's belly opened

And a wing was born.

Two butterflies that dance upon the tumult of a warm spring sky,

Torn between the thunder and the sun;

Over grassy knoll and brook, they run,

Between the glades and blades of grass,

Along the forest paths, and ancient waters,

Spilling their iridescence upon the flowering effervescence.

The summer runs, and wild communion, sips in revelry,

Imbibing cups of Dionysian splendor,

While art thunders with every beat of your wings.

Two hearts that long were parted, found once more, in joy, restarted.

A bough of mutual bliss, interwoven - a heavenly kiss.

The mandarin duck and drake return,

from celestial realms of rainbow coloured clouds,

where no snake may injure them, nor burn, anymore.

The wrong is righted, the song sung amongst the Autumn willow,

Eases their craft upon silver streams of moonlit lantern's.

The waters break and ripple, just a little,

To fall upon some foreign shore,

In time, in waves,

Once more.

-RMP 2018