Provence

Gordes rose out of rock – salmon grey and washed. In the gallery

     of Anne Virlange we found canvas in oil hues,

     impressions of landscapes, a time when love

     slowed, a moment frozen. L’Artegal sealed the day and

     affirmed our right to explore, to raise our eyes.

Between L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue and Maison Georges we found our stride, a

     rhythm between the five fingers of one quiet river.

East of the Rhone, past Roman aqueducts, we passed ochre hills,

     paused on Apt’s ancient cobbles. The Vaucluse erupted –

     grapes and olives, cherry fields and swaths of lavender

     filtered through an African sirocco, bathed

     in violet light and Saharan sand.

That simple things could be so simple escaped us, then fluttered

     loudly with each step on the Via Domitia.

Against an explosion of beet-red poppies, swifts rose stark

     below a mistral sunset, and fast –

     a hint of warning in their wake, maybe a sigh;

     the release of evening air against terra cotta

     rooftops. Wings rustling, ripples of Luberon wine.

Everything was a noise —