Monday 21 May 2012

The source

‘There are springs on the land.’
    That made sense. Three great plane trees grew close to the gate of the main house, testament to unseen water; they would not have grown so tall, so strong without it.
   Dom caught my hand.
   We were both imagining the same scenes, in which our dream life together would evolve on the gravel paths leading under shady oak, pine and fig trees, between topiary and low stone walls marking the shady spots with views down the wide valley, or up to the hilltop village crowned with its medieval castle. Tables and chairs where we would read or sip a cold drink, or offer each other fragments of our former lives while sinking into a state of complete contentment.

   Animals drinking spring water at the trough under the fountain, the stone bowl giving the scene a decadent air (...) now the trough filled with dead leaves whirring down from the plane trees.

   The wind in the plane trees still whispers the old stories. Then it changes to give an impression of a lively stream, or a vehicle coming up the lane. The trees imitate the sounds of life, absorbing and replaying them, according to the type of wind that stirs their boughs.

                                                                           Excerpts from The Lantern


Elizabeth Young said...

'The wind in the plane trees still whispers the old stories.' Beautifully written and beautiful pictures!

Muriel said...

You have managed to capture the spirit of Provence with your words, Deborah. I miss the sun now...

Anonymous said...

Your love for the region is apparent in every word.

I love the line about the wind whispering their old stories. Beautiful!

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