Lodève is about 40 kms to the north and Saturday, today,  is market day. C said she preferred the market here as less Brits etc than at nearby Clermont l’Herault. Not sure I agree C, especially as I was partly responsible by adding to that number of Brits! Many other languages can be heard here.  The market fills the streets around Halle Dardé – flowering plants and hanging baskets with horrid fittings arranged on the curved steps . . . . .

 . . . excellent chic French colour co-ordination with the surroundings here . . . .

 . . . all the usual produce and products well displayed to attract customers. Sometimes too much choice . . . over 20 types of marinated olives, aah!  . . . . many more styles and sizes of bags and baskets, espadrilles, babouche . . . .

 . . . all too much, too many decisions, so looking beyond the commerce to the wooded hills – this profile of the Red Hills that surround Lac Salagou . . .

 . . over 30 degrees today – sorry folks stuck in wet, cold UK – so the river flowing under Pont de Montifort is more refreshing than ever . . .

A lone young fisherman sorts out his line and bait.

The poetry festival starts here on July 16th. So much to enjoy! Aziz Sahmaoui & University of Gnawa, et Lecture les Pieds dans l’eau  et Jacques Rouboud

La Disparition

Un corps noir tranchant un flamant au vol bas
un bruit fuit au sol (qu’avant son parcours lourd
dorait un son crissant au grain d’air) il court
portant son sang plus loin son charbon qui bat

Si nul n’allait brillant sur lui pas à pas
dur cil aujourd’hui plomb au fil du bras gourd
Si tombait nu grillon dans l’hors vu au sourd
mouvant baillon du gris hasard sans compas

l’alpha signal inconstant du vrai diffus
qui saurait (saisissant (un doux soir confus
ainsi on croit voir un pont à son galop)

un non qu’à ton stylo tu donnas brûlant)
qu’ici on dit (par un trait manquant plus clos)
I’art toujours su du chant-combat (noit pour blanc)

— J. ROUBAUD

Vanish’d

A black thing wings a flamingo, low flying,
Bound along ground (which, prior to flight, not light,
Brown’d a grinding sound in flood fo air), plying,
Carrying its blood afar, coal carrion in fright

If nobody was coming braggingly to pass,
Galling brow now, plumb on sagging arm a bind,
If, falling, stark cicala, out of sight, out of mind,
Moving, gagging, gray sick luck, out of compass

Alpha, inconstant sign of truth’s diffusion,
Which might know (grasping (on a night of calm confusion
So you think to sight its bridging footfall)

This NO, flaming gift to your plumbago, writing)
That thus is said (by missing mark, most shut of all)
That long-known art of wordplay-swordplay (black for whiting)

— Trans. John Lee

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