LANGUEDOC/ROUSSILLON – By Hortense Hargreaves, from “Le Ciel est Bleu and other poems”

LANGUEDOC/ROUSSILLON

February Hills. Through the snow mimosa stretches. Branch upon branch of glistening yellow Reaches towards ‘Canigou’, mountain of church-like splendour. So many dark days lived by all. Forgotten? Not yet. Cherry orchards. A paradise of fruit so red, so dark, so utterly devoid of shame, waiting for the right moment to please, nodding towards the pine trees, palm trees, majestic and statuesque flirting coyly in the breeze. And then the vines. Pruned to perfection and kissed by the sun like soldiers, ready to serve and soon in triumph will offer the fruit – but not yet. Come, see for yourself this land hammered from rock its people chiselled from history. Above the towns bold symbols of ancient conflicts the fortresses squat benignly now. Gold and red, the colours of honour as we hear the sounds of the ‘Cobla’. The planes fetch and carry and we think we know – but do we?