Southern French Village

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The boulangerie
Opens its sleepy eye
To the bird tweeting village
And looks upon
A once neat boulevard
Aged to a trunk lumpy
Old woman, clucking
Pleasantries as she ambles
With white crusty bread
To her shutter clad dwelling
Limp on its hinges
But crookedly beautiful
With time.

Her garden is put to work:
A crop of gnarled tomatoes
Fruiting in pastel lanterns,
Grapes yellowing
And freckled on the vine
And a font
Where honey oozes
Through the faucets
Of voluptuous figs,
Loosened and falling
As purses unclasped
And relaxing
Amid the gravel
In which herbs muster volatile
In air sweetened
To Provençal notes
And excited to fragrance
By a brush past
Or even the sun
Hot in the radiating stones.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

The Dream Of The Balancelle

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En Francais
Il es une balancelle

In English
A swinging chair

Hung in the languid air
Shaded by the rustling oaks

And caressed
By a honeyed breeze

In to which
The birds twitter

So the mind
Is temperate

As the perfect afternoon
And thoughts

Are spaced
As the young apple

And the quince tree
In the orchard

And time
Is the lolling arm

Let loose
From a snooze

And the comfortable rocking,
Gently to and fro,

Dans le reve
De la balancelle.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Family Friends

You know those
Family friends
Whose house
Nestles deep
Within a rural village;
Where time follows
Its own wholesome course
And wellies are never far
From being worn
On Sunday walks
Through fields
And quiet footpaths;
Where afternoons
Are your own,
Comfortable in arm chairs
Or at the long lunch
Where the food
Is as fresh as the company
And somehow tastier
For being plucked
From gardens near
And in harvest’s
Flush of giving.

Well,
This is us.
In our thoughts
And in our place,
And in our home
From home.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Dedicated to and inspired by Pig Hotel Nr Bath http://www.thepighotel.com

Holiday

Just saying the word
Is enough to quell
Its worrisome opposite.

You appear
To have swelled in breath
And buoyancy

Around the chest.
And more,
Your face is full

And your eyes
Are lit,
And your smile

Has spread
So a yellow sunrise
Wells

And the summer
Crests,
And you

Absorb
As much
As you reflect.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

For Mima