365 Poems/63 South Of France

South of France

The air feels and tastes different here.

It’s sweet and warm,

distinctly Mediterranean.


Roads appear as if they’ve

hardly been used in the past

one hundred years.


There is a golden eagle

languidly flying over

castle ruins, where once

people would sleep

and fuck, eat and fight.


In the morning, we run

to the village shop,

buy pain au chocolat,

still warm when they’re

taken from behind the glass.


Back at the house,

the windows and doors

are open, and the sun

has let itself in.


We eat breakfast at the table,

off the white paper bags,

dabbing at pastry flakes

with licked finger tips.


When we walk, I start to love

my body again, and your laughter

repaints my happiness.


The fig trees are not ready

for our attention, and the

wild boar must be sleeping.


This is not a cut and paste landscape,

but an undisturbed feast.


The sun has followed us,

and for the first time, we hide.

The stone shepherd’s hut is

cool, fresh and unexpected.


You put your head out into the open,

raise your face towards the sky,

lick the dust above your lip.


I pull at your arms. I touch your hot head,

and you step back, until the two of us

are resting against a lone spine of shadow.