Interlopers

July.

The cool northern breeze tugs at the

Hills with their green woolly hats

Pulled down over their ears.

The trees, dancing the gavotte

Of the winds

Tell us -

Move on!  Move on!

And little sad towns nestle in their valleys

Wondering what is the purpose

Of life?

Grey shuttered from reality:

Hiding their true spirit

Yet whispering –

Move on! Move on!

Where is this land hiding its young?

Are they locked away by

The old women and three men

Who parade their existence

In the church,

Turning their backs on the

Interlopers and praying –

Move on! Move on!

Still the mistral tugs at the vines

And the cloud plays hide the sun

Stating - this is our land

Wish for your weather

Somewhere else –

Move on! Move on!

The Haut Languedoc calls-

Taste my bread!

Suck my cheese!

And quaff my red wine!

But –

Move on! Move on!

And so we pause

Only a while, as passing through

Like Norbert Dentressangle

In the lorry park down the lane

Who then -

Moves on! Moves on!