le long du chemin – along the way

Just went off on a stroll to get away from boxes and unpacking following house move to discover the poppy field on the junction where the road to St Victor des Oules cuts across the road to Vallabrix. The poppies this year are in full and long flowering mode – viewed and enjoyed in my 10 years of re-location to Occitianie – magnificent and I will remember their display. Verges are resplendent with textures and colour . . . and opuntia ficus-indica . . .

. . . my destination. One of many fields around the new base in St Quentin la Poterie – in each direction – so joyeous . . .

. . . and then a modest Vicia sylvatica or is it V.villosa thrusting up from the verge and making me stop to investigate on the way back to home. So elegant in habit but self assured too.

Acroos the narrow road, folks have planted a bank with Agave but a predator (yellow Kniphofia) has risen up to enjoy the conditions and take applause . . .

and next door a punica showers over the path that isn’t a path – one can get knocked down here . . .

. . . ferula pushing upwards. Then very close to home, the egg shelf and a gentle solanum which nudged me into thinking of planting another. It’s all quite comforting but it’s been a jolt. And the choice of poem ) well, Mary Oliver, you are just a star.

The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation

of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn’t a place
in this world that doesn’t

sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage

shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,

black, curved blade
from hooking forward —
of course
loss is the great lesson.

But I also say this: that light
is an invitation
to happiness,
and that happiness,

when it’s done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,

touched by their rough and spongy gold,
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight —

and what are you going to do —
what can you do
about it —
deep, blue night?  Mary Oliver Poppies