***
Icy winds have swept across Monceau,
Blowed the skirts of chestnuts up,
Dozens of long-legged fawns and does,
Occupy the cattail swamps – hunttime!
Willow bogs are thrilled with snow on their arms,
Naked oaks observe sand cranes and geese
Darting southward in the Champagne-thick clouds,
Lime trees, stripped of their butter-yellow T-s.
Quietly, I tread the leaf-clad cow trails,
Through the lace of snow, the tussock grass –
Frozen and silent – autumn Hermitage,
Everyday my route looks like a heart!
Hares sprint through fields with speed of light,
Tractors are like snails in wet and mud,
Wild garlic’s smell has paralysed the marsh,
Wooden sabot hang to decorate the farm.
I can see no ordinary cows,
I can write with blackthorn’s inky juice,
I can feel how astringent is icy wind
Seized by nostrils on the icon in the church.
In the dim December light
Gold is golder, patience is the rule,
Focus inwardly and listen to the song
Of Église named after Saint‑Marcoul.
