Walking to France (Walk No. 6)

 

The rock thrush calls through vultured skies,

And high above the spirits build.

The valley plain has seen the change,

As voltine butterflies emerge.

 

The gathered heat has history’s tongues,

And summons up the mystery’s ghosts.

The Perfects’ silent, deathly pyre,

Which lingers odourless and long.

 

The mountain griffon circle round,

As step by step we walk the track

Which wartime settlements had planned.

Ignored by all, the bones are dust.

 

Across the border nothing’s changed:

The Cathar’s rock thrush sounds the same.

 

 

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