87.
Jan 27th.
That day again. The wails of those lost souls echo down the years. How many like the amazing, sturdy and bright light survivor Alice Herz-Sommer were lost in that Holocaust hell. Though I am uneasy at Israel's present position on Palestine, uncomfortable with a perception of tangible hypocrisy; I hope that those lost voices are just that: lost but not forgotten for ever.
The village holds a small procession around the square and to the mairie. Just a few are wrapped up and walking. The sun is bright and warming although the wind edge is sharp. An aperitif warms the belly too and instills in me a short spell of guilt. We are subdued but whole, and here. The mayor drinks to memory and coughs repeatedly.
Sparrows scuffle under the tiles of the mairie and are noisier than we are . I walk up the hill and am still touched by the winter sun. On the bird table a male black cap shovels its thin beak sideways to scoop up the remaining grains of the peanut flour. It has the tenacious energy over and over again to drive off another, a female with russet cap, attempting to take the food. Soon their hormones will change, their plumage colour will intensify and glow and relations will be different! And I shall hear their song.
Jan 27th.
That day again. The wails of those lost souls echo down the years. How many like the amazing, sturdy and bright light survivor Alice Herz-Sommer were lost in that Holocaust hell. Though I am uneasy at Israel's present position on Palestine, uncomfortable with a perception of tangible hypocrisy; I hope that those lost voices are just that: lost but not forgotten for ever.
The village holds a small procession around the square and to the mairie. Just a few are wrapped up and walking. The sun is bright and warming although the wind edge is sharp. An aperitif warms the belly too and instills in me a short spell of guilt. We are subdued but whole, and here. The mayor drinks to memory and coughs repeatedly.
Sparrows scuffle under the tiles of the mairie and are noisier than we are . I walk up the hill and am still touched by the winter sun. On the bird table a male black cap shovels its thin beak sideways to scoop up the remaining grains of the peanut flour. It has the tenacious energy over and over again to drive off another, a female with russet cap, attempting to take the food. Soon their hormones will change, their plumage colour will intensify and glow and relations will be different! And I shall hear their song.
No comments:
Post a Comment