Once again in the South of
France. A place of dreams for me. As I closed my eyes and relaxed. In the nearby
sounds, I can hear the gentle swishing of the trees and further away, the sea
clashing against the rocks and pushing driftwood onto the soft beautiful
burning hot beach! Each grain of sand tells a story of times gone by. So many
footsteps have been over the sand here and from all over the world. Tears have
fallen and smiles have been seen. The sand has been witness to everything. Ships
from years ago old fishermen struggling to get back to Shaw. Darkness as
someone has decided this world isn’t for them and splashes from excited
children as well as fish living in their world which has found itself having to
share with humans full of greed steeling from their kitchen of what once was
plenty. People who have gone mad with
the salt the sand that tells tails fairy tails in some cases, and other stories
of nightmares, but today isn’t a nightmare, it’s a dream.
Not only the sounds, but the
smells of garlic, the taste of olives and freshly baked breads, the delicious
wines and the cheese that has been bought today from the market.
Friendly faces I passed each
person saying hello and every smile adding to my perfect time here in France. A
perfect writers paradise.
It’s here where I can sit near
the pool hearing ripples from the what is normally still water. My head feels
clear. My stomach is released of all knots. I’m happy, I have a smile upon my face,
I’m far away from the worlds news. It’s a zone I can write words of freedom and
fantasy. It’s a place I can paint, pictures of perfection. A clear mind and it’s
free from all nastiness. They don’t know where I am only those who matter know
and those who don’t matter, mean nothing and it’s that freedom which I love. Ripped
off those straps, those chains and on my return to reality, to England, I hope
to prevent those ties from coming at me again, I’m ready with scissors to cut
open the ropes and as for the chains, I will hope to find the strength to not
let them near me.
The birds they sing, high on the
trees. In the near breeze, I hear the seabirds, their song isn’t quite so
beautiful, more like city sounds of determination, hurried words no time to
take a seat. But these birds above my head are singing a song of sweet sounds
and the chorus is yet to come!
My pen to paper, which is covered
in grains of sand, yes, those grains even can see what I have written, but they
blow away and what goes on in the sands, stays in the sands.
Later on, I shall catch a boat to
a distant island to take dinner with my love and Son, candles will adorn the
tables. Flowers of tropical colours shall give fragrance to each person. Shells
of all colours and shapes will remind us we are around nature. Sizzling sounds
as our food will be prepared. Clinking of glasses will be heard as crystal will
ping in a pure performance of an orchestral tunes. The moon shall shine, the
silver stars will sparkle and dance in time with life. I shall sit back, take
in the inky night and know tomorrow I must once again enter the world of
reality and return to England, but in the meanwhile, I shall have my place of
dreams in our villa in Le Grau d’Agde
© Fiona Cummings
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